Joy Bringer
by GilGal
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Abigail Hart moves to London after a bizarre dream, following her heart along the way. My take as I attempt to answer to the questions: How does John Watson cope with the loss of his best friend? How does Sherlock survive? Will he like what he finds when he comes back from the dead? Now Complete!
1. Prologue

_A/N: This will be as quick as possible getting started, but awesome once you-know-who is on the scene. Enjoy! The OC and plot are mine but what you recognize are not!_

* * *

__

Prologue

* * *

__

Those eyes see into her soul. She can feel the piercing gaze going to and fro, burning inside. Tempest-tossed orbs in a face of deathly white, searching all around, for an escape route, and seeing none, down down down they gaze. She screams, seeing his destination, seeing it unfold in his mind, the decision reached. "No!" Out reach her hands, stretching further, she again cries, "No!" but he gives her no notice. Arms spread wide, one foot, pauses over nothingness, his coat billows around him, the smell of blood is thick in the air. He glances up again, then, seeing through her, closes his eyes and lets go. The air is rent with keening, screaming; wind rushes and then—the horrible thud. 

_She screams, sitting up in bed, soaked with perspiration, gasping for air, clawing at the sheets. "No!" again she tries to reach him, but it's too late. Slowly, her breaths distance themselves, her heartbeat calms. "It was so real," she whispers to the empty room, looking around. Calm. Familiar. She runs her hands through the dark brown waves atop her head, trying to grasp the familiar. As adrenaline recedes, a crushing weight fills her chest, and back down she falls onto her bed. Curling to the side, she buries her face into the pillow, as sobs tear through her, she weeps for the man with the storm driven eyes, the man she has never met._


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: As always, this work of fiction is mine, except for what you recognize.

* * *

Chapter One

* * *

Abby settles back into her seat, calm, quiet, collected. She looks around, seeing families, elderly couples, businessmen, gathering bags, talking, shuffling. It's time to exit the air craft, but she is far away in her thoughts, remembering what brought her here.

"A Feeling," she told her mother, Mama, she had been since Abby could talk. Mama understood. Some might say intuition or foresight, but Mama and Abby had trusted these "Feelings" as long as they could remember. The morning after her strange dream, Abigail felt compelled to go to London. Mama would miss Abby, but she knew the importance for her daughter. "It's far away from Georgia, Baby Girl, but home is always here for you. I'm always here for you. You go. You do what you need to. I give you my blessing." They hugged, and the burning in Abby's heart increased. _Go quickly_, it compelled her, but life has ties. Jobs, apartments, friends. Abby bought a ticket that day, gave her six weeks' notice and cancelled her lease. Nursing in England was going to be an adjustment. She recalled how things swiftly fell into place, as though she was meant to be there. Of course. She spent hours on the internet that day, looking for a new home, new job; she got in contact with an international nursing agency. They promised a big sign on bonus to anyone who committed to at least one year. _One year in London,_ she thought, _what will happen?_

"Do we know anyone there, Mama?" she inquired, packing and planning.

"Only a distant cousin. John, I think his name is. I'll ask for his number from your aunty. She knows his mother." John. Abby tested his name, Feeling him out. "John is a good man, Mama," she said with certainty and her mother nodded. "Yes. I believe so."

Abby wasted no time connecting with her relative, but got to response for several days. Finally, late one night came his response via email. The next morning, she was delighted to find,

_"Yes, hello, it's me, John Watson. Text when you're settled and we'll be in contact, Abigail. I'll send my number and address later. Welcome to England._

_-John Watson"_

Though brief and almost a bit rude, Abby didn't mind. It went against her Southern breeding that he didn't offer to meet her at the airport, especially since he knew that she would be all alone in a new country. But the Feeling she had about John kept her hopeful. She knew somehow that John would be helpful to her, and she to him. Though perhaps he wasn't the best communicator, it would be alright for now. Abby continued to pack.

"A Feeling brought me here," she whispered, alone in her row, her tongue rolling the words around in her mouth as though trying a new taste. Her confidence now bolstered, she could gather her carryon luggage and walk slowly down the aisle.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: As always, this work of fiction is mine, except for what you recognize.

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

A few weeks had passed since Abby had come to live in London and still she would find herself in situations exposing her to culture shock. '_Same language'_, she thought, '_different world'_. She immediately disliked the idea that her nursing agency provided housing for its traveling nurses and once she saw the accommodations, she realized why.

"I didn't have this many roommates in college," she grumbled to herself as she waited to use the bathroom one morning. Phone in hand, she checked to see if John had responded to her text to meet up. Their meeting had been rescheduled and postponed by him several times already and Abby was beginning to doubt that it would actually take place. But, there, an alert had just shown her that John was available this afternoon and would she like to meet him for lunch? Abby smiled, responding, pressing him to commit fully to their meeting. John responded in giving her his word, but fell silent after this. Abigail let it go, but tentatively recorded the time and location in her phone's calendar.

She didn't know why, but she knew she MUST meet him, and soon. She felt the promise of a great friendship in his name, but more than that, she was clueless.

* * *

"So what brings you to London?" asked the blond man, fork sorting the food on his plate. They sat at a table in a small café, leaning over their selections. John had chosen a table in the corner, away from the few other listening ears. He looked listless and disinterested, not even glancing at her. Abby was feeling unsure of herself, wondering why he didn't want to meet with her, yet had agreed. She vaguely explained that she was "wanting a change, and London seemed as good a place as any." Reluctance to share her bizarre way of experiencing the world halted much of her speech, not that she was ever very talkative, particularly with new people. She had known since she was small that most people did not understand her Feelings, and opted to keep the whole concept to herself.

John nodded, silent, stiff. His eyes lifted to his cousin and she began to discuss the particulars of their genetic relation, and she determined after several minutes that they were second cousins, once removed. A napkin diagram and Google search were required to complete this conversation, which was largely one-sided. Finally Abigail could stand it no longer, "John," she began, tentative to navigate his obviously troubled heart, "would you like to talk about what's wrong?" Her deep brown eyes were wide and sincere, head cocked to the side, ready to listen.

John looked up, irritation flashing into his eyes, followed abruptly by such bone-deep weariness that Abby almost cringed.

"I'm very tired, I haven't been sleeping well." He began, but she remained silent, waiting for the rest, knowing that more was beneath the surface. Her eyes searched his face, patience and peace exuding from her very being. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm, although her cousin stiffened at the contact, she didn't remove it. As a moment passed, with John's eyes fixed to their juncture, slowly, some of the rolling emotions within him calmed. Abby felt it, and smiled slightly, urging him to go on.

"Honestly, it's nice, your not knowing. Everyone here knows, but then again… not really. I was hoping we could have a nice meal and I could get my mind off of what has happened. But it isn't possible, I guess…" he paused, looking down at his plate again, then rapidly to Abby's eyes, then around the room. He pulled back his arm, both, and covered his face, sighing heavily. She set her arms at the edge of her abdomen on the table, crossed, but leaned forward at the torso, still receptive.

He began, somewhat muffled behind his palms, but the words were swallowed again as he attempted to remain composed. She glanced around, making sure no one was near enough to overhear their conversation, and satisfied, she fixed her eyes on him again.

She felt compassion rise inside of her, and gently breathed, "have you lost someone?"

His hands fell, and he nodded, still silent. "John, if you would like to talk to me, I'm here for you. You don't have to, but I think it would help. I'll be discreet. You don't have to worry that I'll repeat what you share with anyone. Perhaps…" and here she paused, thinking she had come for such a time as this. "Perhaps it's why I'm here."

Suddenly, John threw caution to the wind, trusting something in the timbre of her voice, believing the words she spoke. "My best friend… Sherlock Holmes... is dead."


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

* * *

Abby stood still as the cab drove away. 221B Baker Street—that black door. Excitement and fear filled her, as though it was actually a black hole before her, not a home. She adjusted her purse strap and squared her shoulders. "A Feeling brought me here," she whispered, blinking several times. She nodded her head and marched to the door, knocking briskly several times.

"Halloo," said a sweet-faced older woman as she opened a few moments later. Abby immediately loved her. "Hello, dearie, are you here about the flat? It's the basement, mind, now come in and I'll give you the go 'round." Abby was smiling, but silent. "Well, actually I'm John's cousin, Abigail Hart. He asked me to come help him with moving those boxes you packed. Emotional support," something stirred in her, however, at the thought of the flat, as Mrs. Hudson opened the door further, letting her inside. "Could I come back down after? Or come back later to see the flat? If John is going to stay here, then I'd like to be nearby, since…" her voice trailed off, not wanting to complete her thought. She was worried about John. Abby could see the pain in Mrs. Hudson's eyes, and chose to spare her the full scope of her thoughts. She understood. She was hurting too. Delicate. It must be delicate. That's how to navigate the pain of others.

_Tap tap tap tap._

Silence. Long pause.

_Tap tap tap tap tap._

Longer pause.

A strange sound, muffled, leaked from around the sides of the door. Abby suddenly felt a shift in the atmosphere around her. Unease began to fill her. "John? It's Abby! Please let me in!" she said as calmly as possible, though her intuition said something was terribly wrong.

"John! I'm coming in!" She turned the handle, finding the door unlocked. It swung open, slowly, and she took in the mad state of disrepair inside the sitting room. "John?" she asked, a question, eyes darting, looking for the man and source of that chilling sound. She heard water running, and walked through the space to the kitchen. There, lying on his back was John, greenish, shivering, eyes rolling around in his head. He retched and began to sputter. Abruptly, Abby ran, falling down beside him. She yanked him to his left side, turning his head so he wouldn't choke. He vomited again, and Abby was now kneeling in sick.

She felt a shiver of fear run through her, and she took in the rest of the scene. John was barely conscious. She cleared his airway, running her bare hand through his mouth clinically, briskly, ignoring the clench of disgust in her abdomen. He began to sputter and a horrible wheezing sound, something like a death rattle, emitted from his scorched throat. She paused a moment, taking his pulse, ensuring his heart was beating properly. After a moment, his breathing shifted and began to sound more regular. Her eyes and hands quickly scanned the rest of him, looking for injuries or trauma and seeing none, she took out her phone to call an ambulance—but something stopped her. She felt a surge of confidence that John would be alright. Instead, she pulled up his knee, helping to stabilize his body and she began to talk to him.

"John Watson, what are you doing?" He sputtered. His eyes opened to slits and he peered at her as though seeing her through water. There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes.

"I'm fine. I wasn't trying to commit suicide," he said, looking up at her from the couch, several hours later. Abby's eyes looked doubtful. "Really, truly and properly, no. I just… I just needed a stiff drink. Maybe two. And I think I took an anxiolytic." Her brow furrowed. "Is that all, John? Allergies?" He shook his head, indicating he knew nothing more. Such a violent reaction was unheard of for the pharmacology he was referencing. Then, a picture came to her mind, she saw a horrified John running across a street, being knocked into by a man on bike. John fell, hitting his head violently. Just as quickly, the image faded.

"Don't worry, I'm fine." A tremor emerged at the end of his sentence, as though he didn't truly believe his statement." Abby blinked a few times, weighing his words. Was it the truth? Certainly not 'fine' as he stated.

"John, have you hit your head recently?" He looked confused.

"No." But she recognized the street she had just seen in her mind's eye. She knew what had occurred there that day, and had begun to suspect what was actually happening to him, why John didn't remember, why he was so confused and tired. "John," she began, delicately. This was like walking through a mine field, "the day that Sherlock… fell… did you hit your head?"

Pain, deep emotional torment showed on his face, eyes closed, trying to forget, needing to remember. "I think maybe." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I know it's the worst thing you've ever experienced and I've just asked you to remember it. But I think you experienced a traumatic brain injury." He looked up, suddenly a light dawning. "Of course," shaking his head, "why didn't I see that?"

A smile. "You have a concussion. Messes with your head. Not uncommon. Come on, as you know, Doc, best thing is rest. Let's get you to bed."

But he didn't move. He was there now, fully there, reliving and remembering. His face was a study of acute pain, agony leaking from his every movement and glance.

His eyes closed, but that didn't stop the tears from spilling over. Hesitantly, he began, "my… best friend… is… gone." 'Gone' was said nearly silently, his voice breaking. His eyes opened. "I… saw him jump." Abby's eyes filled with tears as she silently listened. "It was the worst thing I've ever seen… I wouldn't wish that on anyone." He covered his face, hiding, yet letting the words spill out, "but he told me he had to, that he couldn't face the world knowing who he really was, the bastard! I hate him and I miss him and he's gone but I'm still here!" John uncovered his face, eyes blazing, arms now gesturing wildly—"How could he do this to me?! We were best friends! He was like a brother! I would have died for him!" Tears filled her eyes, sitting silently, watching this man wrestle and doubt. "I don't think he was a fraud. Everyone is saying he was a liar, a man using smoke and mirrors, but it's not true. I don't believe it."

John's arms fell limply at his sides. He seemed suddenly exhausted, defeated. A long paused followed. He met her eyes. Abby nodded. "I'm so sorry. You're in so much pain now. But someday, it's going to fade. You won't be alone. I'm going to look after you, Mr. Watson and you're going to be alright."

Two weary, bloodshot eyes rolled over to her own. "Is that so?" She nodded and stood. "I'll help you get washed up. Then we're going to talk. I'm staying with you until you are clean. Inside and out." She stood, leaving the man bewildered as to what she actually meant.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

* * *

Several months later, Abby's life had taken on a rhythm. She was moved into 221C Baker Street, her scant belongings and all. She would wake and go upstairs to see John. He vacillated between long bouts of sleeping, perhaps for a full day, to restlessness that kept him awake for several days. Abby would begin with breakfast. Something good, warm, that would "stick to your ribs" as GrandMama would have said. Grits were usually in order, American biscuits and gravy. She found that although John often lacked an appetite, she could usually get him to eat a few bites of some of her good Southern cooking. He would come into the kitchen and watch her cook, and he would talk, she would listen. Abby would nod, asking questions at the proper times, crying when it was appropriate and laughing in the proper places as well. John began to expect her every morning, looking forward to the sound of her slippered feet walking through the kitchen. Mostly, John talked about his friend, whom Abby began to feel she had known.

"Tell me about Sherlock," she would say, as she stirred a simmering pot, and John would remember. He would talk. "Did I ever tell you about the time I met Sherlock? It was like out of a movie." And off he would go, remembering and finding slowly that the shattered pieces of his soul were coming back together. Long ago they had packed up the boxes of Sherlock's things, but they hadn't gone far. His room, undisturbed in most respects, did now contain all of his scientific equipment, boxed away carefully, wrapped with love. Abby had thrown away the strange body parts hidden away in the flat's appliances; John couldn't bring himself to do so. Abby sometimes wondered about Sherlock's unmade bed, half full hamper with one sock on the floor nearby. Life was so fleeting. The one thing they both agreed on to keep was a skull (Abby was sure it was real, but somehow it didn't bother her) on the mantle. John told her how the brilliant consulting detective—"only one in the world, he invented the job"—needed an audience and sometimes used his skull as a listener. It seemed a fitting tribute to his life, this man who had loved a few people as best as he knew.

One particular morning, after many months had passed this way, Abby found John awake before her, a table set for two, with simmering dishes already lain.

"Morning, Cousin," he said, smiling. "Today's a good day. Let me teach you what a British man has for breakfast." Abby laughed delightedly, noticing his color looked good, that he was looking less thin and weak as he had been. They had been talking a little less each day about Sherlock every morning, more about themselves, and found they had a growing friendship. John was a doctor and naturally, as they found themselves both in the medical profession, they had a lot in common. Sometimes Abby would discuss her more interesting patients in intensive care, and John would comment on the funny or strange things families would say or do for their loved ones.

"Beans! For breakfast?" Abby questioned, looking at the toast piled high with the legumes, "alright, but it isn't natural." John eyed her, but she was only teasing, and took a large bite of his cooking. "Delicious," she announced, although it may have been stretching the truth—but only a wee bit.

"So, I was thinking of what you said the other day, about how I remind you of someone. Who is it?" John's eyes were curious and Abby suddenly felt unwise in her revelation of her previous thoughts, preferring to keep most of what she thought to herself. "Yeah, yeah. I remember. You have the same smile as my brother, Gabriel."

"Well how is old Gabe then?" asked a lighthearted John.

Abby's face changed, looking slightly ashen, but she continued, "I'm sure he's fine. He passed away when he was 20; leukemia. Very abrupt. It's what made me want to be a nurse. Seeing you—it's kind of like seeing him again."

Oh boy. "Abby, I'm so sorry." John suddenly felt guilty for his smile—but no problem there, he didn't use it much.

Her smile trembled slightly, but the light in her eyes was genuine. "It's ok. Really. Somehow I knew our friendship would be important. I think I knew, even all those months ago before we had met, that you needed me." She paused, her eyes dropping to the table, then back to meet his: "And I think I knew I needed you too. Our friendship, it's been one of the most important of my life. And I'm glad that what I learned after losing Gabe has been helping you too."

He returned the smile. "I don't know what I would have done these last few months without you. I was so broken—I think I still am, but I'm healing, thanks to you. My life has meaning again. I have been able to work, to sleep—even to cook, and that's a miracle!" They both laughed, and he continued, "Abby…" there was a pause, and it suddenly felt a little tense, "Do you think if we weren't related… that you and I…" She looked into his eyes, understanding but hesitant to agree.

"I think I've probably wondered about it myself," she finally admitted. "But alas, it wasn't meant to be. But! You are my best friend!" she casually threw around that term, momentarily forgetting how he was still aching for the loss of Sherlock's friendship and apparently strange company.

The doctor looked down for a moment, then announced rather quietly to his empty plate, "and you're mine." Another long pause. Swallow. Breathe. "That's just what happens when you're the one to help put someone back together."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

* * *

_His eyes bored into her, and her flesh felt hot, her limbs trembled beneath his fierce gaze. 'Why are you here?' he demanded, hands like vices on her arms. 'You don't belong! You can't take my place! GO!' Abby's mouth was frozen shut, and she found she was too weak to fight him. The orbs of sea glass burned hot and spilled rage, so she closed her own, attempting to hide from him. 'I'm still here,' he yelled, 'I'm not gone!'_

Abby blinked into the darkness, a chill in her bones. A deep groan from within her spilled over her lips, and crashed upon the sheets beneath her. "Sherlock," she whispered, "I don't understand." Rolling over, she fell back asleep almost immediately.

* * *

Time passed still, and Abby found a sweet comfort in the harmony of her life on Baker Street. She loved her landlady and neighbor. But something was missing, something important, but exactly what it was, Abby couldn't decide. She knew that the Feeling within her had drawn her here, that it was important that John have help through the hard days. She met a girl, a friend of John's, named Molly. Molly was sweet and mousy but she confused Abby. John had said that Molly had been in love with Sherlock, and Abby's heart had twisted at the story of unrequited love. "The saddest thing in the whole world," she had said to John, who just looked at her, ignoring the strange, childish way she often spoke. But seeing Molly, now that was something else. The sadness didn't go to Molly's eyes, Abby noticed. Why not? She would wonder, occasionally on nights she couldn't sleep or as she did the washing up after dinner. Molly didn't seem quite genuine, although she was a good friend, a sweet girl and a smart woman. It just didn't seem quite right to Abby. Nevertheless, a tentative friendship had developed between them.

About this time, the Sadness, as Abby called it in her own head, was rebounding in this small clouded world of the few friends of Sherlock. Abby first saw it in the way Mrs. Hudson's eyes would not lift all the way or how John would sigh a little more in the mornings. Nothing big, she felt, but it amiss.

"Would you talk to me, John? Tell me what it is?" John had begun to withdraw somewhat, and insisting that nothing was wrong.

"No, Cousin, don't worry. I've not slept well. I'm tired," he would reply, brushing it off.

Abby let it go then, late for work, but tried again the next morning.

"John, please, share! I need to know!" She pressed, and he resisted again, parried and distracted her with talk of a bizarre patient at the clinic, presenting unusual symptoms for a typical disease. Abby listened and then as John was going on about a woman's swollen conjunctival sac suddenly Sherlock's face flashed in front of her mind. It was the picture of him from John's blog, which she had read repeatedly. 'How Sherlock hated that picture,' he had said, but she silently approved. He had been a very handsome man, even in an "ear hat," as he had described it. Abby had never told John that she had dreamed of Sherlock's jump. She had worked out that it had happened the night he jumped—she knew he wouldn't understand. She didn't really grasp it, either. But she knew that somehow she was connected to this man, perhaps only through his friends. That would have to be enough, or she would simply have to be patient to see what would happen next.

"Sherlock?" she said, a question, but as she spoke it aloud, she realized. "Why… it's nearly been a year, hasn't it, John?" He stopped immediately, looked at her, then through her and sat down, defeated on the couch. "No! Well, yes. It has. But, I just want to be over it! I want to be alright again. I didn't realize it would take this long to heal. I hate this! I want to just pick myself up by my bootstraps and be fine already!"

Abby nodded. "You know, it takes a long time. I have never found that insisting to myself that I should be better already had ever worked. So let your heart be where it is. It's ok. Don't be ashamed. It doesn't make you weak."

John nodded. He didn't make eye contact, but slowly stood. "I think I'd better get to work," he mumbled, and this time Abby didn't fight him. But she determined in her heart that there must be a way to fight the Silence (John's reticence to talk about Sherlock anymore) and the Sadness (the depression that lingered although he attempted to ignore it).

As she thought hard that day, in the tube, at work, administering medications, giving baths, she had little success. What could they do to fight the melancholy feeling in the lives of Sherlock's friends? As she was standing at her locker at the end of a particularly brutal day, she saw a picture in her mind. It was her new friends, gathered around a table, some laughing, some crying, all enjoying themselves of a fine meal. They were dressed in black, drinking wine and telling stories.

She wondered. Did Sherlock have a proper funeral? Did his friends get to grieve properly, with closure? It never seemed to her from what John and Mrs. Hudson shared that they ever had the opportunity, and at that, a plan formed. She would host a dinner at 221B Baker St, and it would be something of a wake for Sherlock Holmes. That man who had slipped into her dreams for months now would be honored and his beautiful friends, some of the most wonderful people Abby had ever met, would have the closure they needed.

And it would be exactly one year to the day from his suicide.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"We are gathered here today to remember the man Sherlock Holmes. I would like to begin by welcoming Detective Inspector Lestrade. It's wonderful to finally meet you. Now, everyone have a glass?" Nods, and she continued, gesturing around the room. "I know that I have never met Sherlock Holmes, but I feel as though I've known him, walking through this near year with you all. It's not often that you meet a man like Sherlock, and even more rare to lose one like him. He might have been called a sociopath or freak by some, but we all here think that he was a great man and perhaps even a good man. No matter what rumors surrounded his death, we have confidence in the goodness in his heart and think him to be one of the best men of among us." Abby paused, looking around again, John, smiling, Mrs. Hudson, sniffling, and Molly, confusing conundrum Molly. Greg, as the Detective Inspector insisted upon being called, nodded as she confirmed what this group thought of their friend.

"Would anyone like to share a story about Sherlock?" she asked, uncertain where to go next.

The DI nodded and said he would, and began to tell how he met Sherlock, his first impression (not very good, as everyone groaned and agreed through the insults that the brilliant consulting detective unleashed)and his final thoughts about the man. He gave honest but high praise, leaving Abby beaming.

Next was Mrs. Hudson, a bit more weepy, but still heartwarming. She spoke of loving Sherlock as her son, how she had insisted to his face that she was not his housekeeper and secretly enjoyed washing up or popping in to make the boys a cuppa. She told the story of finding Sherlock speaking to his skull the first time, how she reacted and hid it away (although "that clever boy," she called him, "found it again in no time").

Molly seemed to be the next logical choice, but she had covered her face with her hands and insisted she couldn't speak. Abigail noticed there were no tears.

"Well, John, would you care to say anything?" John stood slowly. He seemed to be thinking.

"Sherlock Holmes was my best friend. He was a brilliant man. He saw the world in a different way than the rest of us sods, and he could be a real pain in the arse to live with at times. But he a bloody good man and an honorable one, and I will always respect him and miss him." John went on to tell hilarious stories of Sherlock, about the queer things he would notice about a person, making him seem so brilliant and yet how he could miss some things that the rest of us would consider so obvious.

"Didn't know that the earth goes round the sun?"

Each began to laugh, deep belly laughs that filled the room. "Finally," the nurse thought, "we'll chase away Sadness and Silence after all!"

* * *

They all had gathered around the table in 221B Baker, sharing loads of food the Abigail had prepared. Good Southern Comfort food, she had called it, and it was. Mashed potatoes, fried chicken, green bean casserole, homemade bread, and a three layer coconut cake_. 'My British friends', _she thought with delight_, 'are gonna get a taste for my GrandMama's southern food!'_

In the middle of the meal, as all began to relax and enjoy themselves, a knock was heard, and Abby volunteered to answer the door. "Probably my continuing ed book," she said, as Abby excused herself from the table.

As the door swung open, Abby's mind went blank. "It's you," she said quietly, shocked. Her voice sounded underwater, as though she were talking very slowly. The eyes! The tempest-tossed eyes! He was silent, observing, eyes rapidly rolling over her, taking in what there was to be learned. Abigail's arm reached forward, still, slowly, blinking, as though disconnected from her own control. Her cool fingers touched solid mass, dark coat, then blue scarf, plum shirt. Her hand rested on his heart, unwittingly. "You're real." Abby didn't believe in ghosts, but she didn't know how to explain this encounter. Suddenly, John's face flashed across her mind. She remembered everyone gathered upstairs, gaily laughing over her fried chicken.

Still, this stranger was silent. Abby realized that Molly had known all along. "Oh," her voice sang, as a haunted tune, "this is why it wasn't in her eyes. Molly knew?" Still, he was silent, hands behind his back, an inscrutable expression on his face. Abby removed her hand, and as she did her heart dropped. "It was for their own good," was all the dead man would say. Abby knew, suddenly, _knew_, that every good thing they had ever shared with her, it was all true. He was bizarre and wild but brilliant and _good_ and he had loved those people up in that room dearly, whatever it had looked like on the outside. "Did you track them all down?" she asked, Sensing the reason he had been gone so long. His eyes narrowed and it looked as though he was about to respond with vehemence, but she cut him off. "I knew it. I dreamed of you. I knew it couldn't be over." He looked puzzled, and she quickly continued.

"You've come back from the dead then? Best come up and eat, you look half-starved," she opened the door wider; he walked past, and then slowly turned. "Girlfriend?" he inquired, having noted her bare left hand, attempting to explain the presence of this stranger. She shook her head, unwilling to answer just yet. "Should I go first?" He replied with silence, turning his back and bounding quickly up the seventeen steps to his flat. Abby followed, catching up to him as he paused outside the final door that separated him from the friends he died to protect.

"Oy! Abby! Quit flirting with the delivery boy and get back in here!" then followed by peals of laughter, clinking of glasses.

She looked up at the consulting detective, then, as though compelled, she grabbed his hand, squeezing. "Go in, they'll be wanting to see you." Her eyes dropped as he slowly turned his head, his dark curls falling perfectly across his forehead. "I'm glad you're back. Now Silence and Sadness will be going."

Though his face held no expression, Abby could feel it bubbling up inside him, and she blinked rapidly at the overwhelming emotions tearing through her. Nerves. Fear. Excitement. Rolling, rolling, like waves off of this man. He seemed to draw strength from her as she absorbed this burst of intense emotion. A flicker of confusion swam in his eyes, then confidence and he quickly pushed away her hand, using the same to open the dreaded and desired door.

"Look, everyone," she said weakly, although her face was bright, "look who has come back home."


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

* * *

At first silence filled the room, mouths hanging open. Fear spread eyes widely, and a long pregnant pause filled the space.

Then, several things happened at once. A great scream left Mrs. Hudson's mouth, while Greg and John stood up, chairs scraping and voices yelling. Obscenities ricocheted off the walls at a shocking volume. John ran to Sherlock and grabbed him about the shoulders—peering into his face, vacillating between asking him if he was real to shouting at the stupid sod. Finally the doctor reached back and swung a (well deserved) punch into Sherlock's face, particularly his eye. This halted anything else from happening, as the dead man was now on the floor, looking up at his friends, holding his face. Mrs. Hudson began to sob, looking faint, and Greg wrapped his arm around her. Molly sat very still, tears shining in her eyes, hand over her mouth.

Abby reached down to help Sherlock up, but he ignored her hand and sat up by himself. She suddenly felt the intense intimacy of this moment. A friend, back from the dead? She felt out of place, an interloper and decided to back out of the room, content to wait in her own flat (she now regularly said) and let the group have their reunion, however it should go. Abby looked again at Sherlock, Felt promise in her heart and knew she would have the time she wanted to understand all the details later.

"See you later, Mr. Holmes." He didn't look her way, eyes only for his friends.

The next afternoon, a wearied but secretly very happy Sherlock peered out the window of Two Hundred and Twenty Two B Baker Street down to the woman exiting the cab below. He was alone, curious and bored. He couldn't see her face, but noticed several things; she was obviously limping, wearing navy blue scrubs, there was a long still-forming bruise on the back of her neck. He judged by her shoes that she was a nurse and her age lead him to surmise she had worked as such for approximately five years. Probably, she specialized in some type of cardiac care—most likely intensive—judging by the human-heart shaped pendant which was affixed to the lanyard about her neck. He took note of the slump of her shoulders—considering that she was coming home after having been gone approximately four hours—he determined that she had somehow been injured on her job, which had caused her to leave early.

Sherlock was bored since John had to leave for the clinic. They had stayed up much of the night, talking. He had explained what had happened that day at Barts, how Molly had helped him stage his death and procure a body near enough resembling his own. John had been dazed, confused, not grasping the complex details of Sherlock's narrow escape from death, but had—as usual—accepted what the consulting detective had said. The most John needed to comprehend was that Sherlock had done it to protect his dear friends, which he did, somewhat begrudgingly.

"Sherlock, you could have at least told me, I could have gone along with it," John had grumbled, still angry, yet grateful he had been saved from a sniper's bullet. Sherlock gave him a look, and John knew that wasn't really true.

"I needed time and space to hunt down all of Moriarty's men, and I certainly could not be bothered to watch over Baker Street! It is all over now, we can move on," he had insisted, but somehow neither of the men was silently sure they could resume their old life so easily. Mrs. Hudson had hugged Sherlock and wept on his shoulder, much to his embarrassment and discomfort, saying she was "glad to have him back, but next time, she would kill him herself." Sherlock replied that "staging my death again would hardly be useful, as no one would believe it a second time," but she was adamant. Detective Inspector Lestrade had shaken Sherlock's hand while calling him several choice names. Sherlock took it in stride, content to be back in his favorite room, around his favorite people once more. It had been a very long year.

He watched her walk to the front door of the building, then heard her fumble with the lock. Pause, sound of door swinging open and then slowly make it to her flat. He was itchy with curiosity. Who was this woman? He hadn't thought much of her before (though he noticed her short, clean nails—works with her hands—accent (American—he smirked), shining, wavy dark hair and her eyes (deeply rich and brown, with flecks of orange and shades of gold) last night at the door. What an odd meeting, he had thought; pondering who she could be. She had said she dreamed about him and he wondered if she were a fan, a member of the press, or someone undercover with sinister motives.

Only one way to find out, he thought, as he let the curtain slip out of his hand. He turned, heading for the door.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

* * *

Abby limped to her bathroom, deciding above all else, that she must have a long soak before going back to bed. It had been an interesting morning, to say the least. She had woken with a sense of foreboding hanging over her head, but the optimist in her attempted to ignore it, thinking positive thoughts about how great the day would be. "After all," she said to herself as she quickly dressed, "Sherlock has come back!"

But it had not been.

As the beautiful jetted tub began to fill, she added Epsom salts to ease the ache in her muscles. She debated for a moment if she would add bubbles, deciding yes, before walking to bedroom to undress and locate her robe. Glancing in the mirror, she noted the bruise that was forming quite nicely on her cheek, bringing her hand up to touch it. When would her pain medicine begin to work? When the tub was full, she pulled her hair back into a messy bun to keep it dry, hung her robe on the hook behind the door and gratefully slipped into the hot water, letting the steam and aroma of rose and lavender fill her senses. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and let her arms float beside her, taking in the heat for pain relief. A sign escaped her lips as she began to decompress from her traumatic morning.

Several minutes passed comfortably this way until a nearby creaking sound filled her ears. Slowly, her eyes opened to see the bathroom door swinging wide—she hadn't latched it fully—for no apparent reason. Her brow furrowed—"hello? Anyone there?" Silence. She tried to see around the corner, but couldn't catch a glimpse of anything so after another few moments of silence, she returned to her position of relaxation and closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the warmth.

_Drip_

_Drip_

_Drip_

"Hello Ms. Hart."

She yelped, eyes flying wide open in shock. None other than the (in)famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway of her bathroom, hands in his trouser pockets, one leg crossed casually over the other. Quickly, Abigail brought her arms and hands over her breasts in an attempt to cover herself—she was only partially successful, being rather more well-endowed than she would have liked at that particular moment. Simultaneously, her knees came up enough to cover the rest of her nude form. She had never been so grateful to have added bubbles to her bath then that singular occurrence.

"What are you doing here? Get out! My door was locked! How did you get in?!" her rapid fire questions made him smirk. "Well which is it? Do you want my answers or my absence?" Her face was filling with a deep blush, her voice trembled. "Please, Mr. Holmes, don't stay. It isn't gentlemanly of you."

He laughed. "I never claimed to be a gentleman, Ms. Hart. Quite the opposite, actually, I have some questions for you which I do not think you will refuse to answer, given the state in which you now find yourself. I rather think you'll be quick about getting to the point. So tell me, for whom are you working? Did Mycroft send you?"

Realizing he didn't mean to leave until his curiosity was satisfied, Abby found herself peeking out of her closed eyes to make sure that sufficient bubbles remained to preserve her dignity. She sank a little lower into the tub, right up to her chin. Nothing could be seen, at least from her angle. Still, the humiliation! Never had she felt so powerless!

"I'm waiting, Ms. Hart. But please, take your time." Something like a licentious grin crossed his face as he stared at her very rosy cheeks.

"I work at Barts. I'm a nurse; cardiac ICU. No one has sent me. I don't know Mycroft, although John has mentioned him." Tears of embarrassment were burning in her eyes, but he was unmoved.

"Of course, you do realize that in a short while nothing will be between my eyes and your defrocked form. Don't play games, Ms. Hart. I want to know why you are here." His eyes were hard, harder than she had ever imagined possible. "Mr. Holmes, truly, no one sent me. John is my cousin, distant. I moved here less than a year ago. He's a relative, so we have spent time together. I don't mean anyone any harm."

"You should stop avoiding my question. I want to know _why_ you. Are. Here." Why that, of every question? She wondered. "I wanted to. It seemed like a good idea."

"Not good enough. People do not leave behind all that is familiar to move to another country, where they do not know anyone simply 'because it seemed like fun,'" he spoke this with great derision. "Something pushed you here. Something has kept you all this time. Tell me," he demanded, eyes smoldering. Abby had never known anyone who seemed to dislike her so thoroughly before even knowing her. Not seeing another way, she finally admitted, "I had a dream. It was… odd, dark. It felt tied to London, somehow. I don't have a better reason than that."

"A dream?" his eyes scoffed, disbelieving. "Absurd. You said the same yesterday. You dreamed I was alive?" Now it was time for her eyes to grow hard. She had experienced enough ridicule as a child to know better than to share what she had Felt. But what choice did she have right now?

"No," she snapped, closing her eyes, feeling tears well up again, "no I dreamt you died. I saw you jump off of the roof at Barts. I had never heard of you, so to me, I dreamed of a stranger. I had never met John or knew who he was. I don't know how, but I saw you. I saw your eyes. I saw you call John with tears running down your face, admit you were a fraud, a fake. I saw you toss your phone behind you, and before you jumped you looked into my eyes. I tried to stop you, but I couldn't." Her eyes opened, staring deeply into his, which had narrowed. "You found out those details from John."

She returned the look, just as hard, just as serious. "Not in the least. John has never spoken in detail of that day. Feel free to ask him."

"You dreamed this far away in your home in the American South? When?"

She paused again, not wanting to reveal the whole bizarre truth.

"Ms. Hart, really, I should think I wouldn't have to work so hard to persuade you. Perhaps you would like me to take a peek—" "The day you died! I saw you fall in my dream the same day you died! I don't know how, I don't understand, but it happened." A tremor slipped into her voice as she exposed the last detail she wanted to conceal. She wished she could think of a word bad enough to describe Sherlock.

Though he hated it, he could see and read that she was quite genuine. He would have liked to throw this trespassing woman out of the building. She wasn't one of them. She didn't belong. She was too sentimental. Absurd. He didn't know what to think of her story about the dream. No theory? Unusual for Sherlock Holmes.

He quickly changed courses, "tell me about the patient who attacked you." She blinked a few times, not sure if she had heard him correctly. Abby had heard Sherlock was like this, but it was something quite different to experience it herself. "Not until I'm dressed."

He looked at her again, pointedly, only saying, "tick tock, Ms. Hart." He was slightly disappointed that she didn't ask him to explain how he knew.

A loud sigh and she attempted to calm her breathing and slow her heart rate. She began. "When I arrived I found I was to be floated to another floor. I received my assignment and report, quickly going to my first patient. Elderly male, in for severe COPD, CHF, possible UTI. His previous nurse told me he had been anxious because of impaired ability to breathe, so he was the first I chose to see. She failed to mention that the PRN dose of Ambien she had given had made him confused and combative; perhaps she hadn't seen him in a long time. I guess she didn't know that can happen. What was supposed to help him sleep had the opposite effect, and by the time I had arrived, he was pulling at his leads and IVs. I called for help, but ran to restrain him, as he was trying to get out of bed. I didn't want him to fall or hurt himself." She paused, thinking carefully, remembering it just as had happened. The blush in her cheeks was fading as she focused on the story.

"He started yelling at me, saying terrible things, but he was confused. I do believe he thought I was a prostitute." A grim smile found its display on her lips. "I tried to get him to calm down, enough so I could slip at least one arm in a restraint, but before I could, he grabbed my lanyard, and bit my hand, which I immediately pulled out of his mouth. Then, honestly, I don't know how, he brought his leg up and kicked me in the face. Of course by that time, others were coming in to back me up, but it was too late for me. So I spent about twenty minutes as a nurse today and about three hours as a patient, getting CT scans and blood work done. And," she paused, lifting only her thumb from the water, "because he broke the skin, I have to have anti-retroviral therapy done. Not my favorite day as a nurse." She finished, looking up at him.

"The concentration of HIV in saliva is statistically very low." She raised her eyebrows. "Did you really come down here to hear about my day, Mr. Holmes?" Blush, returning as she remembered he's staring at her, only fleeting bath foam keeping her dignity intact.

"So am I to believe you are a benevolent angel, here to do good for all? You dreamed of my death, so you say, probably thought you might help? And what, what were you going to do? It was too late, you should have realized that. Don't be stupid. There is nothing you can do to help anyone here. Go back to where you came from. I am still here and we will not be in need of you."

She blinked, realizing that those words he had spoken to her in another dream, "I'm still here," he had said then, "you can't take my place." She pondered for a moment. Perhaps that dream had been about how Sherlock would feel about her upon his return. Abigail cocked her head to the side, and began tentatively, "Mr. Holmes… your friends love you very much. They have missed you very much. There's room for the both of us." She smiled, deep and genuine, he scowled and made to interrupt, but she quickly continued "You don't need to feel jealous about my being here. I could never take your place." He sputtered. Abby supposed he didn't do that very often.

"I am not _jealous_," he scoffed, disdaining the word. She raised her eyebrows again, "yes you are. But you don't need to be. I can tell how happy you are to be home, but you're scared too, apprehensive that they will have moved on without you. But trust me; without you, there has been a big part of 2-2-1-B Baker Street missing. I told you. Silence and Sadness." A sad look came into her eyes, but then she continued.

"I know you've been smoking to keep yourself from going mad, and that you've been hunting down the bad guys—"he barked out a laugh at her terminology "—but it's over now. No more hiding away, living on the run. You're home now, and we're all glad it's so."

Somehow, though Sherlock loathed it, her words brought him comfort.

"So you've been reading my website, then," he stated, rather than asked. Her spine was beginning to ache from the awkward position she held and she wiggled as far forward as she dared—only slightly. At the movement she realized that the pain medication she had taken about an hour before was beginning to take effect. Relief.

"Well, not really, though I did try. I couldn't make much sense of it." She smiled teasingly, somewhat forgetting about her precarious situation. He seemed almost offended, surprised, "then you don't really know anything of what you've said. Perhaps you spoke to John. Perhaps you listened at the door last night. Your average intelligence couldn't deduce anything about me."

"Well thank you for that," she smirked, unoffended, "I didn't deduce anything. I didn't ask John and I didn't snoop. I would never. I just… had a gut feeling." That's the nearest she would come to explaining herself. Sherlock suddenly felt exposed himself. Was that the sensation of having all semblance of privacy ripped away as he had so often done to others? How unpleasant. Yet she did it with grace and poise, not to show off, he could see, but to genuinely bolster his confidence in his position here at Baker Street. How peculiar.

Sherlock noticed that the bubbles at the far end of the bath were disappearing, though he couldn't yet see anything tempting, he had no intention of actually staying long enough to truly expose Abigail. He shifted, leaning away from the doorway, "Good day, Ms. Hart," walking away, he closed the door behind him. Abby only heard silence, no footsteps leading away from her bathroom, no other doors opening or closing.

After a few moments, she decided she had better get out of the tub while she could, no matter his intentions. Quickly, she rose, gripping the sides for support, standing, and reached for her robe as she stepped out of the heated confines of her bath. She had only gotten her arms in her dressing gown when suddenly she felt very lightheaded and weak. Her heart was racing; reached for the edge of the pedestal sink, but her vision was swallowed up in black. Crying out faintly as she hit the floor, she fell into blackness before she could grasp for help.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

Sherlock heard the sounds Abigail made as she crumpled, a terrible thud as though her head may have hit the porcelain fixtures. Not sure what he might find, he softly called her name. Pause; no response. He opened the door, hoping she had been able to cover herself—slightly. She was on her side and facing away from him, the robe fell across her back and somewhat over her front. He knew he couldn't leave her here, passed out, particularly after she had taken such a beating today. Taking care to avert his eyes as much as possible, he pulled the robe all the way over to cover her front, but there was nothing to be done about how it had billowed out behind her. This meant her left side was naked against the floor, limbs tangled around her. He decided to lift beneath her knees and wrap an arm around her shoulder and set her in her own bed.

Straightening her legs to make it possible, Sherlock found himself breathing in the scent of lavender and roses, and enjoying it. His mother wore lavender and he had always found it familiar and even... sweet? Limbs now in place, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted, easier than he has expected; she was rather slight. He couldn't help that her gown was open in the front, but he tried his best to only look forward to the bedroom door; his goal.

Setting her down gently, and appreciating that she had not made her bed, he was able to cover her easily with one hand while he took her pulse with the other. He found himself glancing at the image of her half naked body as the sheet fell over her, although he had tried to resist, the curiosity within him was rising. Her form was quite lovely.

"You got overheated. Probably had some painkillers too, I would wager. Stupid girl; you should know better." She didn't reply, but her eyes fluttered. Her pulse felt regular. He took the opportunity to feel along her head for any signs that she had hit herself, and felt none. Opening her eyelids, his gaze studied her pupils and found both were even and responded regularly to light. He let them snap back, brushing his fingers over her face unconsciously.

"You will be fine," Sherlock whispered, still bent over her, taking in the way her face retained fragile innocence in this state. She was certainly beautiful. But he had seen beautiful women before, this was nothing new. And nude women too; The Woman, in fact. Abby began to stir so Sherlock decided it was time that he be on his way. She would be alright alone.

It wasn't until he closed the door and Sherlock stepped out onto the street, nearly desperate to get away, that he was engulfed once more in a world of stimuli that must be interpreted and understood, bringing stress. It shocked him momentarily, realizing, in Abigail's presence, he had felt complete peace.

* * *

Abigail woke to the sound of feet pounding above her head. She was confused for a moment, disoriented, and had to concentrate before she realized she was in her bed, in her room. The glowing digital clock showed that she had slept for several hours. She tried to remember getting into bed, but her brain was fuzzy. Stretching, she felt that her muscles were very sore and her head ached fiercely. Quickly, her traumatizing morning came back to her. Then, her cab ride home, followed by her bath to relax… then… Sherlock! He had barged in on her in the bath! Her cheeks burned at the memory, and she looked under the covers to see her state of undress. _'My robe? Did he dress me in this?' _she wondered, running her hands over the silky material. No, she had put it on, and then passed out from the heat of her bath. She had thought her heart was pounding because she was embarrassed, and perhaps so, but the steaming water did not help. Abby ran through the physiology in her head, realizing most of her blood had been shunted to her extremities to help maintain a standard temperature in her core. Because she had stood quickly, there hadn't been enough blood available to pump to her head, an thusly the extreme lightheadedness unto syncope. But that would mean… Abby was slowly putting the pieces together.

"Sherlock must have carried me in here. I was almost naked, pressed against him…" Her face burned hotter, and Abby's hands covered her eyes as she fought feeling violated… and a little excited by the idea. "He is so handsome," she admitted to the empty room, picturing those eyes burning into her. His black shirt had fitted him so perfectly, while he wore an exquisitely cut jacket, absolutely meant for him. And those dark curls. Abby thought about running her fingers through them. They had looked so soft. She couldn't ignore that she had thought about him and heard about him constantly for most of the last year, now here he was, back from the dead. Abby could see so much in him, perhaps more than she had ever Felt about anyone before.

"He knew about the patient," she whispered to herself, shadows growing in her room, "I wonder what else he knew about me." She found that there was suddenly another ache in her body she was forced to ignore.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

It was night, but Abby had barely gotten out of bed and hobbled around her flat, thinking to take another painkiller and stare at the contents of her refrigerator until something edible magically appeared when she saw:

_Please join Sherlock & me for dinner. Chinese. I told him it's his treat, since he's back from the bloody dead & he owes me. Come up when convenient. -JW_

Before she could respond, though, the next message came.

_Since I'm STARVING... Hurry! Your usual? –JW_

With a relieved smile she replied:

_Would love to. Yes, my usual, please. See you soon.-AH_

She was still in her robe, not having bothered to contort her aching body into clothing unless absolutely necessary. Subsequently, Abigail began to imagine what she could fit into that would be comfortable, but also look nice. She didn't want to admit it, but she wanted Sherlock to think she looked lovely this evening. The thought made her blush, but she went to prepare herself anyway.

Then, in front of the mirror, she remembered that her face was much bruised and decided to warn John.

_I was kicked in the face by a nutter patient this morning, didn't want to scare you. I look very rough. –AH_

_That's horrible! You ok? You're always lovely, but thanks for the warning. Hurry! HUNGRY! –JW_

_I'm sore as hell, but ok. Five minutes! -AH_

She laughed, and decided to add only a little mascara tonight. The simple black leggings paired with a flowing turquoise top she'd lain on her bed would have to do.

Walking slowly up the stairs, Abby found her excitement mounting as well. '_Sherlock is home' _she kept thinking, '_Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are together again!'_

The door opened before she knocked; John in his anxiety to see Abby, make sure she was ok AND to have dinner couldn't wait. He looked a little shocked at the sight of her, and suddenly Abby didn't feel so confident about her appearance. It wasn't something she generally thought much about. Sure, she took care of herself, but over all she didn't get worked up either way. She was who she was and nothing could change that. But, as though she were a blossoming flower, new thoughts were coursing through her mind. Was she beautiful enough? Perhaps tonight was a bad idea; maybe she should wait until her face was looking better. Too late.

"Abs! You look more than a little rough! What happened?" She walked through the door, blushing, covering her tender face. "Oh, nothing much, just a wild man couldn't decide if he wanted to kiss me or hit me. So he bit me and kicked me instead." She didn't feel like going into the story again and knew John would be satisfied with that explanation. She sat on a chair in the living room, setting her phone on the table in beside her.

"Food will be round shortly. I've had a hell of a day. Couldn't focus on a blasted thing. Glad to be home."

Abigail smiled, amazed to see the alteration in John. Gone was the dark, haunted look. Though it had begun to fade with time, it was miraculous to see the doctor completely out from under that shadow.

"John, Ms. Hart will need her medication," came a cool comment from the desk where Sherlock sat perched, gazing intently at the laptop in front of him. He didn't glance over or offer any sort of normal greeting, although Abby was prepared for that. "No, I took one before I came."

"I would beg to differ with you, Ms. Hart. You intended to do so, but forgot. I can see your pupils and skin from here. You are not under the influence of any medication." Abby thought for a moment, realizing he was right. She had left the bottle untouched on her bedside table, forgetting in her excitement.

Smiling, "John, of course Mr. Holmes is correct. It's on my kitchen counter. Can you bring it please? I'm in need of another dose." John nodded and hopped up, eager to help. As soon as he couldn't be seen on the stairs anymore, Abby began. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I know you put me in bed. I hope… I hope you didn't see more than you were prepared to, as a gentleman." She was testing the waters, trying to determine how much of her he had gotten to see. He smirked, that same irritating expression he used so frequently, "I told you, Ms. Hart, I'm not a gentleman." The ribald grin reappeared. She fought to stay calm.

"Please, call me Abigail. Or Abby. And I beg to differ with _you _Mr. Holmes; I have not often met more of a gentleman than one such as yourself. It was kind of you to help me," then she added, as though an afterthought, "Although it _was_ entirely your fault that I passed out I would never have stayed in so long if you hadn't been there. And now, to notice I needed more medication." Her phone buzzed.

_Pills? Kitchen? –JW_

_Maybe bathroom? Sorry! –AH _

"I'm just showing off. I do that."

"Would you tell me how you noticed I was attacked? Besides the gigantic bruise of course, I'm sure you could see that." He scoffed, "the pinpoint tooth marks on your thumb—of course before you hid yourself beneath the water that is, your limp, combined with the bruise under your lanyard and I deduced what happened quite quickly. Of course, it would be more impressive if you had heard my deductions before you shared your tale." His eyes didn't leave the screen.

_Bathroom? Should I look in the cabinet again? –JW_

"They're on the bedside table, John!" Sherlock suddenly bellowed, making Abby start. A blush rose. A moment, then:

_Heard that. Got them. –JW_

Sherlock turned to look at her, a gleam in his eyes. "Why did you lie, Ms. Hart?"

She got to the point, realizing her time was up, "I want to know what you saw, Mr. Holmes."

Wanting to get under her skin, he lied in turn as well, "everything, Ms. Hart." She blushed and turned away from the intense look in his eyes.

John came back through the door, handing a pill bottle to Abby, who rose to get water from the kitchen.

"Good God, John, shave it, already!" burst the man seated at the desk. The other two jumped, and Abby groaned afterwards, feeling the ache down her spine and in every muscle return.

She and Sherlock turned to look at the offending group of hairs to which the consulting detective had been referring… beneath John's nose. As she poured water into a glass, the nurse smiled. "I like it, John, your mustache has grown on me," but Sherlock continued to hound John mercilessly until their food arrived. John finally told Sherlock to sod off and go down to get the door (code for "pay") and much to everyone's surprise, Sherlock actually complied.

"Don't mind him," John said, "He's just very glad to be home."


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

As they sat in the living room, almost finished eating from take away boxes with chopsticks, Abigail felt her head swim ever so slightly—she bit her lip and shook her head, trying to clear it. But that wouldn't do; wouldn't make the medicine wear off, of course. Suddenly, she felt like talking. Talking a lot. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to fight the urge, but—"so I put on a show for Sherlock today," came out before she could stop herself. John looked at her, confused, but the face of her statement's focus remained impassive.

"What do you mean?" he asked, not sure when this would have even happened. Then came more words that she hadn't wanted to say: "Oh yes, I came home early," she gestured to her face, the purplish bruise John had tried to avoid looking at all evening, "and decided to take a bubble bath. I had locked my door, you know, but still somehow managed to entertain a guest."

John blinked for a moment, looked over at Sherlock.

Stilted words came out of a flattened mouth. "Did you, break in—and watch—her bathe?"

Setting down his box, Sherlock replied, "not precisely," but the look on John's face made him explain rather quickly, "I did not watch her. I did not see anything. I simply needed answers and found it was an opportune time to procure them."

Anger rising, Abby shrilly responded, "you said you saw me! You said everything!" His eyes flashed to her, and she could see how he had wanted to hurt her, how he had lied. Her mouth closed. It was better to not show that she was upset, then. John however, didn't seem to embrace that tactic, "Sherlock! You can NOT break into women's flats! Ever! You cannot snoop on her in the bloody bath!"

Thinking to diffuse the situation, he replied, "not good?"

"It's bloody well more than a 'bit not good'! Don't treat her like she's one of your cases! Apologize!"

Surprise filling him at John's loyalty to this (as he perceived it) virtual stranger, he remained silent. Him? Apologize? Not likely. An awkward silence filled the room.

"You stupid git, without her, I would probably have died right over there!" he gestured angrily to the kitchen floor, but Sherlock's eyes didn't move. "Without me, you certainly would have died with a sniper's bullet in your head." His voice sounded so cold. Abby was crying silently, watching this unfold. She hated to remember that terrible night, seeing John look so sick, so broken. She hated that she had said something to cause them to fight. Sherlock had barely been home twenty four hours!

"Yes, well, I'm still a bit conflicted about all that. You could have mentioned… that's not the point! Your death nearly killed me too, don't forget that." His voice was still raised, though not as loud as before. He continued, more calmly, "she's part of my life now too, Sherlock, and you're going to be nice, as nice as is even possible for you, you bloody idiot."

Another pause, then Sherlock looked to her face, noting the tears, feeling revolted at the display of sentiment before him. "Abigail," she looked up at him, noting it was the first time he had used her name, "I am sorry. Forgive me." It was stilted and awkward but his eyes were sincere. Nodding was her only option, as she didn't trust her voice.

The tears that Abby swiftly brushed away had stirred something in the cold hearted consulting detective, something he had long forgotten—the look of his mother's eyes when she cried. He had hated his father for being so distant with his mother, a tender, gentle woman. She was crushed beneath the weight of his aloof rejection, and so his younger son had despised him for years until he realized his mother, though sweet and good, was a weak woman. She was weak because she cared so much. The day Sherlock realized that he had stopped caring, vowing that was a path he would never walk down in his life. He had got on quite well until his friendships with John Watson, Molly, Mrs. Hudson… all of them had begun to open his heart and heal those wounds, simply by applying the balm of their love and friendship.

He knew he was terrible at expressing it but it had hurt to be away from his closest friends—his family, really—for so long. Now he was back, nothing was the same, everything had changed, and Sherlock blamed this woman before him. He sized her up, looking over her again. She stared back, eyes wide, dry now, lips pressed together as though trying not to cry. How many times had his mother made that same face, the desperate stab at bravery? He didn't want to be around it for another minute.

Finally too uncomfortable with his piercing stare, Abigail looked away, saying softly as she stood, "I think I'd better go; I'll leave you two alone."

"No, no, stay." It was a firm command, a bit unlike her cousin, but it rooted her feet to the floor, "Sherlock is going to learn to accept you. Don't you dare leave." His eyes didn't leave Sherlock. She looked to John, Sherlock looked at her… and moment passed that way in which the consulting detective's mind raced.

Abigail had been the one to hold this little "family" together, he suddenly realized, while he was gone. He must accept that. They will have been changed; he certainly was. There was nothing to be done about it now. Moriarty had forced his hand, and they were all altered because of it. This woman had insisted there was room for the two of them, that she was glad he was back.

"I'll be as good as I can be," a baritone rumble filled the air. It was fairly pathetic, they all knew, but enough for now.

So a tentative truce began as the nurse sat back down. He would refrain from the pointed cruelty he was famous for and Abigail would ignore the _rougher_ points of his personality.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

Upon waking, Abigail found she could barely move because of her stiff muscles and aching face. She rolled over to take another of her painkillers, drinking deeply of the water she had left on her bedside table. She looked at her phone, seeing a text from John.

_I've asked Sherlock to look after you since I'm working today in the surgery. –JW _

Seeing this, she cringed and replied.

_John, I don't need a nurse. I'm fine.-AH _

A few minutes later:

_You bloody well do. You feel terrible and we both know it. I don't want to come home to you passed out or concussed. –JW_

She rolled her eyes.

_Not going to happen! It isn't that serious! –AH _

She got up to begin her day but didn't accomplish much before:

_I also would like you two to become friends. You're both very important to me. Please. For me? –JW _

Abby didn't have the heart to argue with that. John was important to her also. If Sherlock meant a lot, she would do what it took to be his friend. Well, perhaps just acquaintance.

_Fine. For YOU. -AH_

_He owes me & promised to be good. It's important to me. I'll be by to see you this evening with dinner. –JW _

Amongst strong feelings of annoyance, irritation and reluctance there was also nestled a slight excitement at spending the day with Sherlock. Abby didn't like that so much. She tried very hard to ignore it. Which of course made her focus on the excitement even more, only succeeding in increasing it.

_John has demanded I bring you breakfast. That will not be happening. Come up at your earliest convenience. –SH_

The olive branch, so early in the morning; how nice. Abigail had only sarcastic thoughts burning through her head.

_I'm going to shower; are you sure you don't want to come down here, Mr. Holmes? –AH_

She felt particularly proud of that jab until:

_Are you propositioning me? Very well, I accept. –SH _

Her mouth flew open. Well, that had backfired.

_Oh stop it. DON'T come down. See you in 30. I'll be the one in a nun's habit. –AH_

* * *

It had been an awkward morning, rolling steadily into an uncomfortable afternoon. Sherlock had spent most of the time silent, sitting in his chair, hands steepled under his chin. He hadn't spoken in hours, deeply in thought over something, what, Abigail had no idea. Occasionally he would mutter a few words, but it was mostly unintelligible to her ears and she had taken to ignoring him.

She, on the other hand was feeling the effects of her pills again and was trying to fight them, tooth and nail. For a second time, she was failing as some of her more personal thoughts began to spill out, rapid fire style.

"It's a lovely day. Wish I felt like being outside. You look handsome in that color. Plum suits you. I love plums. I haven't had one in ages. I miss home. I wonder what John is doing now."

His eyes didn't open, but a small smile played at the corner of his lips.

She slipped back to lie down on the couch, wondering if it would help her silence herself. She knew what she was doing but it was like something was compelling her to talk! Perhaps it was more like having an out-of-body experience; Abby could see herself acting like an idiot but could do nothing to stem the tide of humiliating words spilling forth. Her face would have burned with embarrassment, had she good sense enough in that moment.

"You think I'm handsome?" he wondered and she moved to cover her face, hoping to ignore the whole conversation.

"I didn't mean to say that! I'm… oh God. I'm going to go out for a bit, I'll see you later." She rose, gathering her coat and shoes, and made her way to the door.

"Take your mobile, Abigail. You may want it." The nurse looked over at the consulting detective. He still had not moved nor opened his eyes. He was very sharp. She stalked back over to her phone and snatched it from the table, slipping it into her pocket, and then abruptly exited the room. Down the stairs and out the building she went, not paying much attention to which direction she began to walk.

* * *

It seemed to Sherlock only a moment had passed when he heard the sound of his phone buzzing in his coat pocket. He would rather not answer, but after the row he and John had last night, after Abby had left, he felt he must. Relationships brought so many ties, he remembered as he pulled the mobile out, seeing that… _Abigail_ was calling him?

Answering, he pressed the device to his ear, hearing heavy breathing on the other line, the sound of wind ripping into the microphone.

"Hello?"

"Oh God, Sherlock, you answered! I've called you so many times already! Please, I need your help. I'm a little lost… and I think…" here her voice dropped and a tremor filled it, "I think a man has been following me. Can you come get me? I'm so scared." Her voice broke on the last word; again, stirring something in him he hated to ponder.

"Where are you?"

"Sherlock, please hurry. I'm near a drab looking shop and café, hold on, I'm looking for a street sign…" there was a pause and he could hear her frightened breathing again on the line, "I think I see a sign… Downing? No, no, Browning and Crescent Street intersection, sorry. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes, I will not be long. Be careful. Go where others can see you. Do not hang up, do you understand?"

"Yes, but Sherlock, my phone's almost dead! Hurry!" He had already grabbed is scarf and coat, but didn't take the time to properly don them before running out the door. He quickly hailed a cab and gave the driver directions.

She heard this, and glancing behind her, seeing the man continue to walk faster after her, gasped, breaking into a faster walk, changing direction.

"I'm going into the shop, ok? I'm going to try to stand right by the display window so I should be visible."

"Do not panic. Remain calm. I am coming for you. I will not be more than ten minutes. Can you hold on that much longer?"

"Yes, but my phone'll be dead before then. It's already beeped a bunch. Should I hang up now so you can call when you arrive or should we stay on?"

"Remain on the line until you feel safe," he decided, as he urged the cabbie to hurry.

"Ok, I just made it to the shop door. I think I'll be ok. Wait a moment though, let me look at—"

Sounds of a fray, a thump and then the line went dead. Sherlock's heart and mind began to race—harder.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

* * *

Sherlock opened the door of the still-moving cab, literally throwing the appropriate notes at the driver. In less than three seconds, he had taken in the scene on the street. Deciding to pursue the avenue most likely to lead him to Abby raced toward the shop. He saw it was open but empty. Sherlock grabbed at some merchandise, slipping it into his pocket as he ran. There, a bright light at the back. The door to the alleyway was just closing; sounds of a struggle and yelling could be heard from the far side. All Sherlock could think of was the way her wide eyes looked last night, as his eyes bored into her, John's yelling mute in the background. '_John will be so angry with me if anything…'_ He didn't take the luxury of finishing that thought. While John's 'irrational emotions' would cause him to blame his friend, Sherlock didn't allow himself to think about the way _he_ might feel if Abby were hurt.

"Abigail!" he yelled as he burst through the back door, seeing her on the ground, a man standing over her. The man turned, facing the consulting detective, his features in a snarl. Sherlock's eyes took in the scene, seeing everything: dark, beady eyes, shaven head, tall—taller than himself—muscular, hands like paws holding a long knife. He was certainly bigger than Sherlock. Abby was lying on the wet ground, eyes wide with fright when she called his name, and Sherlock thought perhaps his heart _did_ exist after all, judging by what happened to it at the sound of her voice. Considering he knew Abigail didn't leave his flat with a purse, and had been dragged somewhere out of sight, he deduced that the man was not interested in stealing Abby's wallet but was likely a rapist. The gleam in the man's eyes told the consulting detective all he needed to know. This made his blood boil, although his face remained a stoic mask.

Grabbing Abby's arm, her attacker pressed the knife to her throat, causing her to grow deathly still on the ground. "Help," she whispered, knowing he would, knowing she would be safe now. The look in his eyes said it all, the furious rage blazing in the depths. "Back off, mate," said the growling bear of a man, "go back where yeh come and forget what yeh've seen."

"You know of course I cannot do that. But I would like to offer you a bit of advice: leave now. If you do not, you will not ever walk out of this alley." A loud, barking laugh filled the space between the two men as Holmes took another step closer.

"Don't move!" he snarled, drawing his hand tighter around the arm frightened woman, pressing his knife harder against the skin. A tiny dot of blood formed beneath the tip while Abby winced. If it were even possible at that point, Abigail saw Sherlock's wrath increase, but the man over her simply laughed, unafraid.

"The dumb bitch is comin' wit' meh." He kicked her roughly in her already sore ribs, making her jump and yelp, tears now coursing down her face. Sherlock saw red. This beast was far bigger and stronger than this little nurse. He was nothing but a bully. Sherlock always did know how to deal with bullies. This would end right now, right here.

He saw his advantage in his lightness and speed, so he sprang, which caused the man to drop Abby's arm so he could return the assault. The would-be rapist lunged at Holmes, sure of himself, that his superior size ensured his coming victory. Holmes had other ideas. He sidestepped the man just as he would have been tackled, then, brought his hand out of his pocket, holding a glass candle jar. He swiftly smashed it against the man's head, causing him to crumple, unconscious and unmoving at his feet. Pieces of glass and wax now littered the pavement around them both.

He turned to look at the woman, her eyes wide, filled with fear and relief and perhaps another emotion the consulting detective couldn't—wouldn't—identify. "Are you able to walk?" She tried to stand, but her limbs quivered too violently. She fell back onto the ground, shaking her head no. "Look away Abigail," sounded the deep, calm voice, and she complied, thinking, as he did, that she would not want to see what came next. "The police are already on their way. It won't be long."

Then a loud snapping, horrible breaking sound followed, so violent that she jumped, but faithfully kept her eyes closed, not daring to see what he would do to the man.

He walked to her, squatting, setting his hands on either side of her face, blocking her view of the rest of the alleyway. "Open your eyes. Look at me." Deep brown met sea glass and he took her in, checking her over. "I'm ok," she said weakly, "just… terrified," she still trembled beneath his hands, so he picked her up into his arms and walked back into the shop. He set her down near the window, so they could watch for the soon-to-arrive-police. She clung to him, holding tight to his shirt, shaking and shivering enough that he slipped off his coat and wrapped it around her. Her back was wet and cold from being forced onto the damp pavement. She buried her head in his chest, her hands still in a vice-grip on his shirt, sobbing while a few unintelligible words slipped out of her mouth. He tentatively wrapped his arms around her, not sure how to deal with the distraught woman. As his limbs found their home across her back, she leaned in even further, and tilted her head up, looking at his bobbing Adam's apple.

Without wondering why, she suddenly felt desperate to get closer, as though that were possible. Her eyes closed, hands slid up his neck to the back of his head and she tipped her face to meet his, forcing him to kiss her. He stiffened, eyes wide open, mouth immobile. She pulled back, eyes still closed, whispering, whimpering, "Please just kiss me, I just want to feel something other than terror, please." There was a desperate note in her voice and something about the moment, power and bloodlust roaring through his veins and her scent and the way her tears make him _feel_, properly, as he hadn't done in years—he responded with vigor, their lips meeting in unison. His arms drew her closer, and they kissed hard, fast, feverish for a few moments, till his hands wound into her hair and she moaned, vibrations rolling into his own mouth and his tongue found it _must _explore her own. She clutched at his hair, pouring all her emotion for this man into this fleeting moment, not thinking about the future or the past, just this singular kiss, when all was perfection.

Several heated minutes passed this way until a throat was cleared behind them. Turning to look together they discovered it was the shopkeeper, who had been in the back. The man seemed embarrassed to find a couple vigorously snogging in his usually empty store. He opened his mouth to speak, but before the ancient man could say anything, the sound of sirens could be heard, drawing all their attention.

Looking back to Sherlock, Abby knew their perfect moment had probably passed, and wanted to lighten what might become awkward. "Thank you," she breathed, "for not letting him steal my virtue." She smiled, tremulous and unsure, dried blood in a rivulet down her neck, eyes now soft and full of trust. He had never seen anything more beautiful. "Thank you for rescuing me. Thank you for being so capable. Thank you for memorizing all of London," a little chuckle left her lips. Her gaze fell, and not trying to fight what she knew would make him uncomfortable, she nestled herself back into his chest, tucking her arms around his waist. She thought then, she wouldn't have had anyone else come to her aid. His hands were still gently cupping the back of her head, surprised, pleased and maybe even excited.

"You are welcome," he whispered, still more shocked at his reaction to her than at the events which brought it to be.

* * *

"London is lovely tonight," a dreamy Abby said as she gazed out the window of the bistro. Sherlock's eyes followed her out the window, taking in the sight. He nodded slowly.

Stating that she must eat after her ordeal, Sherlock had tucked her into a cab, but she had refused to go by herself. Sherlock wanted to remain, to ensure that the police who were gathering evidence did not bungle their work. He felt his own purview was needed. "Please," her pleading eyes making it very hard for his heart to remain detached, "don't make me go home alone." Realizing he wouldn't be able to be rid of her, he had come along, deciding instead that they would go out—Angelo's, of course.

Not wanting to eat, he found Abigail again dug in her heals, saying if she was being forced then he would eat also. She could be very stubborn, he learned. He had ordered a glass of wine for her, wanting her to be at ease and not feel any pain from being brutally dragged, kicked in the ribs, held at knife-point and nearly raped. "The paracetamol in my pills… I don't think it's a good idea," she had protested, but he quickly did the math and assured her that there was no drug present in her system anymore, as it had been nearly eight hours since she had last dosed. Finally, she had agreed, and as she drank slowly, her usual luminosity returned to her face.

She had already cleaned up in the loo, rubbing the small cut on her neck until the blood was gone, and combed her fingers through her brunette locks, trying to tame to waves that flowed down her back. Her face was pink from the scrubbing she had given it at the taps. "So… Sherlock, I wanted to properly thank you—" She began, but he interrupted, seeing if he could keep her off balance longer.

"I think, according to the traditional tales, a kiss is the proper thanks in these situations," he interrupted, eyes shining with laughter, particularly when a beautiful blush rose to her face.

"Yes, well, that's not really what I meant. And about that; I'm so embarrassed. I'm sorry. I feel dumb about the whole thing. If I hadn't taken painkillers this morning I would never have... needed to leave the flat, then never have gotten attacked, you wouldn't have needed to save me…" she trailed off, as though something were occurring to her in that moment. The luminous eyes returned and she sighed. "Anyway, I am rather embarrassed, but I don't regret what happened. And thank you. I shudder to think where I would be without your help today."

"I think I rather prefer talking to you while your inhibitions are lower. It only means your true self is showing. I like the honesty. People—particularly women—can be so falsely coy and catty," she cringed a little, but ignored the comment, knowing he wasn't really speaking about her. "I like that you are more true to yourself, who you really are. My ability to deduce everyone around me puts me at an advantage over you people, with all your social graces; you all look like frauds to me."

She felt like suddenly she was beginning to understand Sherlock Holmes. A very very tiny bit. Honesty, hmm? She could do that.

"Am I a fraud to you? I feel that I've been fairly honest with you."

"I think you are honest, yes. You do not make sense to me, however. You are… opposite of me. I observe and reason, and you, like you said, 'follow your gut.' It seems to serve you well. Sort of. Perhaps your gut has been sick? Otherwise you would not have been attacked, twice, as I recall." He said it all unmeanly, for Sherlock, at least, so she again ignored the sting in his blunt honesty.

Smiling shyly again, seeing another possible explanation, but feeling hesitant to say it, until the look in his eyes made it seem that he could read her very thoughts. "Perhaps there's a greater force at work, something we don't understand. It could be that I was meant to be bitten and kicked and even almost raped in the last few days." Her voice remained even, but she couldn't meet his gaze, so instead took a bite of her eggplant parmesan.

Derisive, full of doubt he replied, "What, such as fate? Do you really believe in that?"

Not precisely what she had meant, but close enough for discomfort. Abigail continued, "Everything happens for a reason. I really believe that. It's proved accurate too many times to not be ringing with truth. Perhaps in time this last week will make more sense. I often find waiting to see why is necessary. But as a rule, I don't wait for an answer to the why. Too maddening."

Sherlock looked at her deeply, studying her face, testing the genuine weight of her words.

"Are you thinking of your brother?"

Chocolate eyes snapped to his, piercing, searching, not hurt, but not happy either.

A sigh, deep and full of unsaid words filled the space between them."Yes, I was thinking of Gabriel. His death has affected my whole family so profoundly in very hard ways. But, I can see in some small ways; good has come of it too. Not that I am glad he isn't with me anymore, but it helps me find peace. Like with helping John. Sherlock, I can't tell you what it did for healing my heart. I hadn't even realized that there were wounds still left. It brought meaning to chaos and pain. It almost made me feel… vindicated somehow." Her eyes were shimmering with wonder. "The things I learned the hard way I could share with John and help ease some of his pain, when you were dead. Not all, of course, but some. And 'some' makes such a difference in the midst of blinding pain. A friend loves at _all times_ and a brother is born for adversity. It changed both of us to walk through that season together. I don't think we'll ever not be friends, no matter what comes in the future."

Sherlock found himself actually moved by her words, but not wanting to show it, he switched topics.

"So, in the shop; you said I was capable. What did you mean?"

The last thing she wanted to talk about. As per usual!

"Sherlock," deep sigh, and she knocked back the rest of her wine, "please. The whole thing is embarrassing."

"But truly, I want to know. Is that what women want?" It was said almost without mockery.

She wrinkled her nose, feeling like an open book, "among other things, yes, being capable is attractive. You can handle yourself very well. It… has its appeal." His ribald grin reappeared. She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"And what else are women looking for, do you suppose?" They both knew he was really asking what she saw in him, and she didn't mind obliging in this circumstance—didn't mind too much, anyway.

"Women love to see strength controlled."

Sherlock sneered, "of course, you women love to have a man follow you around on a leash. I could never do that."

Chagrin filled her and she felt frustration rise as she, yet again, bungled the words she wanted to express. "That's not what I meant, and you know it! A woman loves to be with a man who is strong, physically and otherwise. It means he can protect her from harm, but also, because he's with her, he reigns in that strength to treat her gently. It's very… sexy," she finished, with a raised eyebrow. His look gave nothing away, but Abby watched him swallow slowly; she felt mesmerized by the action. It had suddenly gotten very warm in the restaurant. Abby didn't feel like eating anymore.

"Mm. Beauty and the Beast." She blinked several times, watching his face, reading the depths of him while he remained a mask. "What else?" it was softer this time. She had to look away to think clearly.

"Kindness is to be desired in a man but, maybe that goes along too closely with the last one. Women want to be cherished. To be thought the most beautiful of all other women in her man's eyes. To be loved at our worst is a common human desire, to know intimacy without shame." Her eyes met his, wondering if he would speak what she could already see within the mesmerizing depths.

Still cynical and disbelieving, he continued, trouncing on her as he did, "and I suppose he must be a perfect specimen, his face a study in the golden ratio, a spotless body, no flaw at all!"

Her expression only turned softer, as she Felt he had never truly experienced deep, lasting love, "Oh Sherlock, I would always rather be with a man who was kind to me than a man who was handsome and cruel, no matter what he looked like. Of course, like men, we want to be attracted, but I would never trade the misery of abuse for something nice to look at for a few years. Besides," her tone turned playful here, "we grow old quickly and then it all goes downhill anyway." A smile was ringing in her voice. He couldn't help but laugh also.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

"Where the hell have you two been!?" greeted the two as they came through the door to 221B a few hours later.

"Oh shit," was all Abby could say in response to the anger on John's face. It surprised everyone. None of them had ever heard her swear before. They were both caught off guard, which gave her the opportunity to explain quickly. "John, we're so sorry. You'll never believe what happened today. And my phone was dead, I couldn't call you. I'm so sorry," here she began to explain how she had gone out for a 'bit of fresh air' only to be attacked. Although annoyed at having been left to worry, he expressed a sense of letting her off the hook.

"But you, Sherlock, I called half a dozen times at least! Why didn't you answer?"

His eyes remained cool. "I prefer to text."

"Oh bollocks!" he threw up his hands and stalked out of the room, leaving Abby to suppress her smile by biting her lips. Sherlock looked down at her, having had a surprisingly pleasant evening, and couldn't help the lighthearted feeling rising in his chest. He laughed, and she willingly joined in, throwing back her head and snorting in her eagerness.

This made Sherlock laugh even harder at her, which made her laugh harder and for several minutes they let the stress of the day fall from their shoulders by embracing the bizarre hilarity of the moment.

Finally, as the belly laughter faded, Abby looked up at Sherlock, her eyes shining with mirth and wonder. "Sherlock, why did you kiss me back?" she whispered. Surely he could feel the connection between them?

He studied her, pausing a long time before answering, "I… do not know. I am not a gentleman." It read as a question, but it wasn't.

"Oh, no, that won't do. I know you're quite a gentleman, no matter how hard you're trying to convince me otherwise. Maybe that's why you did anyway. I asked…" she trailed off, recalling how it had felt to have his responsive lips pressed to hers. Sherlock could see the light of memory in her eyes and it caused him to recollect as well. Her body had been so warm, he didn't know it was even possible to feel so. Her lips were unthinkably soft, but strong and her _tongue—_but he broke off his thoughts here, not allowing himself to be carried away in it _again_. The weakness of one moment was quite enough.

"Why must you continue to insist I am a gentleman? Convincing yourself?" Derision burned in his eyes, bluster and show. She understood the dance they were performing now, saw his defenses rising again after his semi-vulnerability and was unintimidated.

"Not at all. I believe that how you treat others and what you expect of them is important. I can see things in you, Sherlock, as I'm sure you can in me. I just like to call out those good things that you are hiding. Maybe you don't even know they're there yet. But they shine in you. And I see that you're a gentleman. So I want to call it out in you."

Flummoxed for a moment, a very rare occurrence, he paused. Was she saying he _wasn't_ a gentleman so she called him one? Was this woman daft?

"You are right. I do see things in you, and now this confirms my suspicions. You are weak and soft. Perhaps the frailest of anyone I have ever met. I would never consider speaking to you again if it were not for John's insistence. Please realize that." His lips were in a firm line.

"Hmm. That wasn't very nice," was all she said as she looked around the flat, avoiding his eyes. She wondered if he ever felt guilty for stating his malicious thoughts. She felt the sting, but understood it was only because she had ventured too near those buried things called _emotions_. "May I disagree with you?" He gestured that she might do as she pleased, so she continued, "I think it's the rarest sort of beauty to remain soft and vulnerable when life has been cruel. I think a tender heart that can still see the good although it recognizes the bad is something to be cherished. It's not weakness which fosters this, nor is it ignorance. Please. I know the world is a hard place. I know that humanity is selfish and groping for its own desires, not caring about his brother. But every day I wake up, searching for what I can be thankful for and when I find it, I'm filled with a sort of delicious joy." He scoffed at the absurd way she spoke, as though she were both poet and child, but she continued. "I'm happy to pour my life out for patients who are ungrateful or unconscious. Or the ones who tell me I have the hands of an angel. Or the ones who kick me because they're confused. It isn't about what I want to get out of life, Mr. Holmes, that makes me happy, but what I put into it."

Sherlock had never heard a more sentimental speech in all his life—he felt suddenly sick at the saccharine words emanating from this woman, as though he were a petulant child overindulging on sweets. Opening his mouth to reply, "Exactly as I suspected," he began, ready to ridicule, ready to cover up the way her words twisted in his heart, but she didn't let him continue.

"And let me interrupt you there. I don't want you to say anything you'll regret. But let me just say that bitterness is not beautiful or moving and that's the only choice I was given after Gabe died—how to respond. I could have become bitter, putting up walls and rejecting anyone from ever coming near my heart again"—her pointed words actually came close to stinging feeling through him for a moment—"but I didn't. I stepped into the pain and used it, as though I were a ship, harnessing the wind. I let it drive me deeper into compassion, love, joy, gratitude. It was torture but it changed me and after a while, I was changing it. The pain, I mean. I was hurting, but I was healing too."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He wanted to ridicule, wanted to scoff and bluster and bring her down to size, but every word he desired to speak withered on his lips, inadequate and proving her point further. Self-preservation had brought him to this point, but was it really working? He was lonely, he suddenly realized, lonely and tired of being alone. The last year spent in hiding had changed him more than he had known, until that moment. She could observe the battle inside him. For just a second, she saw in his eyes a flash—nothing more—of a scared and hurting little boy. Hope blossomed in her heart at that, there was feeling left and she would find it.

"That's why I can call you a gentleman. Because I see it in you. It's not weakness. It's intuition. You're a wonderful man, Mr. Holmes, a great and brilliant man. And even a good man, too. I hope you know that."

Knowing he might reject her, she leaned up onto her tiptoes and gently kissed his cheek. Abigail realized that she had just ripped down his walls and refused to press him any further, so as the chaste kiss ended, she turned and walked out the door, letting him lick his wounds in private.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

* * *

A month went by rather slowly in which Abigail's beaten body healed enough that she could resume working. She still saw John ("got anything on? I'm starved!") and Mrs. Hudson ("come in, dear, kettle's just boiled"), but allowed Sherlock to withdraw from her as much as he felt necessary. Although she burned with curiosity over what he thought of her and the speech she made that night which had felt something like a date, she didn't press, didn't beg, didn't even ask.

He would be afraid after having been forced into vulnerability as she read him like a book that night, and she knew how awfully unnerving it could be. Abigail was very good at being patient. She would cook delicious meals to tantalize the boys into joining her for dinner, telling them that cooking for friends was better than eating alone, but it only worked occasionally. Often John was busy in the evenings with his new girlfriend, which meant she would see neither of them. Sherlock had announced to the world that he was back and his name was restored as the story came out, which meant he was taking cases again. There were often flurries of activity and noises heard from above, making her chuckle during the day and irritating her at night. Sherlock seemed to be less discriminating in the caliber of cases he would take, John had told her, as they passed one another in the common hall one evening. One of his feet rested on the first of the seventeen steps that would lead him eventually to 221B.

"He must be bored or desperate. Likely both. I'd say broke but I don't he has it in him to even think about money. He's taken up a level three case (whatever that means); I have never seen anything like it. He used to refuse to leave the flat for anything less than a seven!" Abigail could understand why the consulting detective seemed to be throwing himself into his work, but said nothing. John was happy, his life full again for the first time in so many months, so she simply celebrated with him.

"Bring your sweetheart around one night this week for a dinner party, Cousin, it'll be fun. I'd love to meet her." She looked to the side, casually adding, "You could invite Sherlock too, if you would like."John seemed to consider this idea, if he really wanted his girlfriend and Sherlock to cross paths. He chuckled, "might be a bit soon for her meeting Sherlock… but I'll think about it." John kissed her cheek in an amicable sort of way and bid her farewell as they parted.

Abigail tried to not miss her friend too terribly but instead to focus on how well he was doing.

It was later that night that Abigail heard the most hauntingly beautiful sounds she could remember in ages—Sherlock at the violin, of course. It compelled her feet up the stairs and into 221B, tapping only briefly at the door before entering. She knew it wasn't likely anyone would answer or usher her inside.

Not wanting to disturb the musician, she quietly folded herself onto the sofa to relax in the atmosphere of melody, letting it wrap around her and unwind the tightness in her muscles, wash away the fatigue in her bones. She hadn't felt so alone and sad as tonight since she had moved away from her home and family. The distance and strain were making her feel like a pulled-taught rubber band, ready to snap any moment.

Abigail curled to her side and wrapped her arm under her ear, closing her eyes and absorbing the notes, humming an accompanying melody quietly to herself. Sherlock didn't acknowledge her presence, but she could tell by the way his back stiffened that he was cognizant of her arrival. He played on, perhaps with more vigor than before, notes rushing past the strings and refreshing her soul, like a balm soaking inside.

Sometime later, she stirred, feeling refreshed and filled with vitality, as thought she had enjoyed a perfect night's sleep, but she was unsure as to whether or not she had in fact drifted off at all. Looking to the window, she saw that it was still night, or dark certainly. Standing illuminated by city light glow was Sherlock's outline. He was playing softly, slowly, so quietly that Abigail had to strain to hear the notes. He paused, "John has gone out for the night," as though he wanted her to leave. She looked up to the ceiling, ready to ignore what he didn't specifically spell out for her.

Several more minutes passed, a few notes slipping between them and bouncing along the walls. She remained silent, thinking about the last time they had been together. A thought occurred to her.

"Sherlock?" He stopped playing but didn't turn. The line of his back looked receptive, so she continued, "What did you do to the man who… assaulted me?" Wondering, imagining, she had conjured scenarios in her head, but was ready, she thought, to know the truth.

It took him off-guard, not the question he had expected. He cleared his throat.

"Fractured his femur," sounded the emotionless reply. She gasped slightly, imaging the force that would have been required. She had no idea it was even possible in that setting. Without, say, falling down a mountainside or being hit by a car. "How?" she asked, he turned . Abby couldn't make out his features as the nights from the city shone in around him.

"Simple geometry. I told him he would not walk away from the alley and I kept my word." His words were clipped. Abigail found her breath hitching in her throat. Something about the memory, his feral rage, which had simmered beneath the surface during that encounter, had made her feel so safe. It was base and animal and simple and she had liked it somehow. Abby didn't really feel very proud of her body's response to his aggression against her would-be attacker, but it was what it was.

"Thank you. Because you saved me… you potentially saved countless other girls from a worse fate. I don't think he'll forget the lesson you taught him anytime soon." Abigail equated this to what John had told her about the time CIA operatives had harmed Mrs. Hudson. He had thrown one of the men out of window. It made her wonder again how he felt, what he believed had motivated him to act like he had. Surely he _cared _for Mrs. Hudson, that much was obvious. Would he so damage any criminal? Or was it because he felt something—she'd be happy with _anything, _long as he was feeling _—_ for her?

Sherlock took in her features and words, warming at them, but schooling his expression out of habit. The image of him straightening the foul man's right leg, making an angle with the ground and then leaping upon it to pound the bones at his knee joint filled him with adrenaline all over again. The power of crushing his enemy, wounding him for wounding his own—Sherlock stopped here, alarmed at where his thoughts and even—_feelings_—had lead. He felt protective of this woman. Jealous over her. He would certainly act in like manner again if needed. It was a frightening realization.

All this passed in a flash, his mind racing, heart pounding as he appreciated her beautiful features, dark hair flowing to one side over her shoulder, eyes incandescent in the night. She stood, reaching to switch on a lamp, bathing them in softly glowing luminescence.

She didn't know what to say, but wanted to stay near him, feeling the ache for familiar rising up again.

"How is your case?" At this, he smiled, in safe territory.

"Quite well. Solved. On to the next." He expostulated, seeming invigorated at the chance to discuss what he loved doing. She listened, seating herself again, comfortable as he articulated the clever end he'd concluded only hours before. He was showing off, confident again, and she watched, taking in the wit and absolute brilliance of his mind.

She asked a question about a particular point relating to his case, to which he was stumped, and was forced to reply, "I don't know." He seemed hesitant to admit it. "You've probably never said that before," she teased, enjoying seeing him in this relaxed state.

"That is not true. I have been at a loss a few times before in my life." He sounded almost defensive, but Abby could tell he was actually pleased at what she said. "Oh Sherlock, you're such a genius. What will we do when you don't know the answer?" She sighed, again teasingly, smiling as she walked to the kitchen. "Fancy a cuppa?" He nodded, following closely behind her.

As she set the kettle on, her fingers drummed nervously over the worktop. Sherlock was in easy repose, leaning on the opposite side of the room, but near enough that she felt his closeness and wondered what he was thinking. He was all sinewy glory and smoldering masculinity and Abby was feeling overwhelmed, under-prepared for it all tonight. She took a few deep breaths to calm her nervously beating heart. Where had her easy calm from moments before gone? Ahh, it had slipped away the moment he followed her, watching her every move as though she were his prey. That particular _look _in his eyes made her insides feel a bit like storm-tossed waves.

"Why do you look like I've just trapped you in my dungeon, Ms. Hart?" he questioned, focusing that keen observation on her jittery movements. Her eyes flashed to his for a second, then away. He was so good looking, those cheekbones, that smooth baritone voice, alluring eyes. She was feeling inadequate tonight, like an adolescent girl at her first dance. It was very uncharacteristic for Abigail, making her wonder why.

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Holmes. I'm quite at ease."

His eyebrows met briefly at her obvious lie.

She thought for a moment, then remembered he appreciated honesty more than self-preservation—and perhaps she could grow this way also.

Sigh.

"I'm nervous because you look very handsome tonight and I was remembering what it was like last time we were together in this room and then I remembered when you kissed me in the stupid shop and how it felt." Her sentences ran together, eyes were wide at her own admission, but he only continued to smolder hotter, flames burning in his eyes, arms still crossed, hair curling effortlessly into perfection.

He took in her rapid breathing and dilated pupils and felt a heady rush at the power he could wield over her. His hip thrust out, then unfolded his arms, walking slowing and deliberately towards her. He stared at her lips, asking a silent question. Her eyes grew even wider, but she turned to fully face him, wanting to receive him. Is this how honesty would be rewarded? She could be honest all the time, she thought as his hands encircled her waist, teasing lightly against the small of her back. She lifted her arms to weave into his hair, loving the feeling, missing it. She scratched lightly at his scalp and he hummed in appreciation, slowly lowering his head to connect their lips.

Abigail's eyes slipped closed as they moved together again, rediscovering one another, remembering and learning. She pulled him to her with desperation, not sure why, but needing him like a drug, like air, she kissed him with passion. His tongue slipped passed her lips, and she opened for him, letting him invade her mouth with his hot muscle, teasing her and making her knees feel weak.

He pulled back, looking into her eyes, taking in the relaxed almost glazed look she possessed at the moment.

Suddenly, the kettle boiled, shrilly screaming and pulling their attention away from one another. Abby giggled nervously as she pulled her hands (reluctantly?) from his hair to attend to the howling appliance. Sherlock released her as well, stepping back, feeling exposed all the sudden, wanting something as a barrier from the moment. She offered it in the form of a cup, and they stood in silence for a few minutes, letting the near-boiling liquid cool and steep. Abigail stared into her mug, not so self-assured anymore. The consulting detective watched her, reading the expressions as they crossed her face, telling him what she was feeling in silence.

He bent, quickly kissing her forehead, perhaps the most intimate caress of the evening, and went back to the sitting room, picking up his violin again. Abigail blinked, wondering what he was thinking, feeling like an open book but ignorant of the language in which this man's tome had been composed. Was he always so hot and cold?

Could he tell she had barely kissed anyone before this? Before him? Was he repulsed, nonplussed? In the years when most girls her age were having their first boyfriend, Abigail was spending every spare moment in the hospital with her brother, then later, at home. Her father had not liked Abigail missing school, insisting that when "Gabe got well" she'd be so behind. In the end, her mother had fought for it, offering to home school Abby and Gabe both, hiring tutors when needed. Mama had known, just like Abby, that time with her brother was precious and rare and fleeting. A Feeling, but neither had discussed it. The looks they gave one another said everything they never could.

Two and a half long years of fighting, a thousand days from diagnosis to death; some good, but mostly, just very bad, very hard ones. It was the hardest thing Abby had ever done, to love her brother unto death, watching him fade and weaken, the star athlete whom everyone loved. After that, she had no desire for romance in high school, everyone around her had eyes filled with pity and it made her quite mad.

Then her post secondary training, to which she gave herself fully. Something quick, something she could use to get out into the world, so she chose nursing. She knew the difference a good nurse could make when someone was dying, not just for the patient but for the family as well. Often they had found such comfort from the most amazing group of people Abigail had ever met, full of love and compassion, but smart and strong and able to help in crisis. She had admired them, wanted to be like them. Most of them, at least. Not everyone gave themselves fully to work.

But Abby had given herself to school, didn't try to turn heads, just crammed hers full of knowledge. She took it so seriously, not rejecting friendships, but placing them all second to her degree. She needed to learn, needed to have understanding so she could help others. It was life and death, no time for romance. Perhaps she would indulge after, she often thought, when she was out of school and could have a life again, when she could think about romance. But secretly she wondered if anyone would ever really turn her head.

Here stood this nurse, full of idealism and hope, thinking she could now open her life to include romance, but now, after years of avoiding it for the sake of others, she had no idea how.

* * *

XX


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

* * *

"Are you menstruating?" asked Sherlock a few days later while the three relaxed together in the evening. Abby froze with a chocolate bar halfway to her mouth. John sputtered across the room and lifted his newspaper higher to block them out, presumably. Blinking several times and controlling her rather visceral response to his question, Abby responded, "tell me what you see, Sherlock," which was her way of inviting him to share his deductions so they could be on the same page.

"Yesterday I observed you eating crisps—quite uncharacteristic for you, and today you break your ban on sweets with this," he gestured toward her mouth. "Considering the increased irritability I've monitored over the last few days, I'm estimating your menstrual cycle will commence tomorrow. Am I correct?" Abby tried not to laugh at Sherlock. She also tried not to smack him in the head.

"Yes, I expect the same, Mr. Holmes. However, if you could never again ask me about personal biological processes simply because you're curious, I would appreciate it," she tried to emulate his speech patterns, and was mildly successful.

John abruptly said, still behind his newspaper, "anyone for a game of Cluedo?" effectively changing the subject.

* * *

Sitting with book in hand, Abigail curled her legs underneath herself, leaning back onto the sofa to relax. It was several days later and the room was silent aside from the sound of Sherlock pacing back and forth. Try as she might, her eyes were drawn to his movement every time Sherlock walked past. "Bored!" he said loudly, looking over his kitchen table of experiments. The equipment had slowly worked its way back all over the flat as of the last few weeks. As she looked up, he looked down and their eyes met for a moment. She quickly looked away, trying to ignore all his movement.

"What I wouldn't give for a good murder." John scoffed, but said nothing.

Walking past again, he looked down, and she looked up. Sherlock was close enough that she could smell him, that spicy earthy scent all his own. Her eyes snapped back to the page, but not before she saw the smirk on the consulting detective's face. Cheeks burning, she bit her lip and vowed to focus.

"BORED!" came the howl again a moment later as he made another pass. Eyes collide, blush, smirk.

"A suicide even, anything!" Abigail ordered herself to focus all her attention on the page.

Frantic pacing, nervous talking, glances meet, red cheeks, shifting.

The glimpses between them grew more frequent until Abby was sure that she'd read the same sentence in her book a dozen times. She tossed it down in frustration, standing and asking, "anyone for tea?" while heading into the kitchen.

"None for me," John said, "I'm going out," there was a long pause, then he added, "I've got a date." There was a sly sound in his voice. She turned quickly, hands on hips. "A date?! Why didn't you say anything?!" Abigail was full of Sherlock's nervous energy, making her voice animated.

"I just did say something," came the smart response and she glared at him, trying to look annoyed, but with all the love and hope burning in her eyes, she failed miserably.

"John, do have a wonderful time."

"I'll take tea," came a bored and perhaps forlorn voice from the man who stood now at the window. He picked up his violin and began to play, his attempt to drown out their conversation.

* * *

After John had left, Abby and Sherlock were alone again. He was still composing at the window, plucking and bringing the bow across the stings in beautiful melody. Abigail sat coiled on the chair, observing and appreciating this wonderful—and bizarre—man. Her hands were curled around a mug of tea as she sipped, letting the warmth invade her bones.

She was about to pick up her book again when Sherlock said, still facing the window, "what did you mean when you said your attacker would have stolen your virtue?" She paused, eyes snapped to his back, hand outstretched toward the table before her.

"Woah. Where did that come from, Sherlock?" She sat back, using her mug as a shield against his questions.

He didn't turn, but his hands ceased to move over the instrument. He didn't reply.

"I should think it's obvious. He… he wanted to rape me. So… that's what I meant. Thanks for saving me from that fate."

"No, that is not what I meant. It is not what you meant either." Here he turned, and turning those soul-invading eyes onto her, she felt exposed. He emptied his hands of the violin.

"It isn't?" she asked, innocently enough.

"No. I think you meant your virginity."

Her eyes grew very wide at this, and her face burst into a hot blush.

"Sherlock, this is one of those personal biological things that you can't ask about, remember? It's not your business!"

"Well you brought it up, you know. But am I right? I know I am."

She couldn't bring herself to say the word, '_virgin'_ in front of him, not with those burning eyes and the light of the fire making everything seem surreal. She set down her mug and took a deep breath. "We aren't talking about this. And having mentioned something in passing forever ago is not bringing it up, by the way. Particularly after my life was threatened."

"I'm a virgin, it does not bother me. It is merely a natural state. Biology. Nothing embarrassing." If possible, she turned even redder.

"Why are we discussing this?! It doesn't seem proper!" Abby couldn't bring herself to talk about sex with Sherlock. He was a virgin? How could that even be? His beautiful body and mesmerizing mind surely had attracted others before her. Wrapping her head around this concept, she felt something uncurl within her. His gaze was intense but schooled.

"Abigail," he used a certain tone that made her insides feel mushy all of the sudden; "you are a nurse. This should be normal conversation to you. Why are you embarrassed?" Her own inadequacies overwhelmed her in that moment. She had never wanted anyone like that! She had only really discovered she even had a libido after meeting Sherlock. It was all still new. New and frightening. It caused her throat to constrict, emotion, fear, irrational and fierce, burning through her. She fought to control herself, slowly, moment by moment, winning.

"No, people don't normally talk to _me _about my love life! Oh God, please can we not do this?" Her hands covered her face. Finally after several minutes she peeked out between her fingers. When his expression did not change, she realized this was really happening. "Why do you even want to know?"

He looked her over; weighing the best way to say what was on his mind. "I was just thinking about it. It seemed… nice, that we are both virgins."

Her eyes grew wide again. What was he saying? "Why do you say that?"

"Well, it is only natural to consider the act. You are a beautiful woman. I'm a… _capable_ man." His eyes took on a devilish gleam. She thought several things at that moment, one of them was to appreciate that she had just called her beautiful. The other was to mildly despise him because he was teasing her, bringing up their embarrassing conversation from that terrible day. Was he saying he was thinking of having sex with her? She was secretly pleased but mostly horrified.

"Sherlock, you can NOT tell people you think about sex with them. It's not normal. It isn't proper!"

"I did not say that."

"You implied it! Please. This is _very_ weird."

"Well, you are the one who kissed me." He sort of grumbled, but managed to continue smoldering.

"Oh, that's it!" She stood, throwing her arms in the air, "I regret ever doing that! It was the heat of the moment. I had just almost died! It made me act a bit rashly! I'm sorry!"

"I am not sorry. I enjoyed kissing you, Abigail," he stepped closer, within reach now, "I have thought of little else since then." He stepped closer, slowly, giving her time to push him away, time to refuse him. "Well, as much I can think about any one thing. Shall I say I have replayed it several times?" She didn't move. His arms slipped around her waist, fingers dipping into the small of her back and pulling her the rest of the way to his chest. She gasped, suddenly feeling as though she had drunk a heady wine, her eyes slowly raised to stare into his. "I am going to kiss you again. You may stop me if you like," he said playfully, but his eyes were burning with ferocity and she couldn't have turned him away even if she wanted to do so.

Slowly, his mouth lowered and gently slanted over hers, teasing her. She found her hands had lifted themselves to the back of his head, pulling him further into the kiss. Abby felt him smile against her lips, as though he had proved a point, and afterwards continue to gently tease and taste. His lips felt soft and sweet and she couldn't help a whimper of appreciation from rising in her throat. Taking this as encouragement, Sherlock pulled his hands up to cup her face, tilting her head to alter the angle at which their lips met, creating an entirely new range of sensations. She moaned fully this time, fisting her fingers into the dark waves at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, increasing the intensity and tempo. They madly pulled at one another for a few minutes, kissing in the firelight, delighting in the feel of their bodies pressed together.

Finally Sherlock pulled away from Abigail. "There, now that was not too bad for a couple of virgins." She brought her hands over her face again, "I never confirmed nor denied!" muffled behind her hands. "Oh you are. I know you are. I find it extremely sexy, don't worry."

Her hands fell, unconsciously finding a comfortable resting place upon his chest, and bit her lip. Abby simply gazed up at Sherlock, taking in what he had said. There was a tight heat building in her at his words and caresses.

"Maybe I still have my," she paused, thinking of less uncomfortable, though archaic, synonym, "…maidenhood (here Sherlock laughed lightly), but it isn't your business and it hasn't got anything to do with anything."

"Oh it has everything to do with everything," he began to kiss her again; to lower her defenses and cloud her reasoning. He needed her heart in control again, like that day in the shop. When she was whimpering against him again, he paused. "When I make love to you"—a bizarre sensation rocked though her body at his words—"it will make all the difference."

He kissed her again, making her knees weak with desire and longing, her hands roaming over him, till she felt his hands cup her backside, causing her to wrap her arms around his neck and pull as he simultaneously pushed in the same direction. She wrapped her legs around him, finding her hips bucked instinctively forward into his and she gasped at what she discovered there. Pulling back from the kiss, Abigail looked at Sherlock, her eyes hooded, filled with desire. His solidness was where she needed it and found that she couldn't seem to stop rocking against him, gasping at the sensations, her eyes wide with pleasure, her head thrown back in ecstasy. He continued to press her hard against him, reveling in the way she was so quickly finding him useful, the way her hair bounced along with her breasts as she moved against him.

Suddenly, her eyes grew wide and she stopped. Quickly her legs slipped from around his hips and she dropped back to the floor, pulling her arms away from his shoulders also. Her chest was heaving and her knees felt weak. "What just happened? How did you trick me?" she wondered. "I wasn't planning that. I swear," thinking he would ridicule her. Then she remembered what he had said, '_when I make love to you_…' and she looked back at him, face grim.

"Sherlock, I don't know what kind of girl you think I am, but I'm not just going to sleep with you. If that's what you think, you can go to hell. And shame on you! You took advantage of me!" Her eyes were shining with angry tears and her breathing continued on in an irregular pattern as he considered her.

"Abigail," he breathed, sighing perhaps wearily, "I think we can skip pretending we are not attracted to one another." His expression remained grim, however, as though he were delivering terrible news. "Do you like me?" She glared at him, refusing to answer. "Well, I like you. I like your company, and your humor and your wit. I like your smile and your heart and the way you make me feel, properly feel as I have not done in years. I like your tight arse, too," he added, just to make her laugh, which she did.

"I have no intention of seducing you. I would however like to keep spending time with you."

"But you said… you were going to _make love_ to me…" she whispered, unsure. "Yes well, I cannot really help thinking about it. Nor will I stop hoping it will happen. I… desire you." She felt another hot clench within her belly, want unfolding. His eyes were smoldering and she felt herself drawn into the depths. "I've imagined it a hundred different ways," he said, softly, and she couldn't help the hitch in her breathing, but she didn't trust herself to speak. Nor did she want to interrupt what might be the most important speech she had ever heard in her life.

"I cannot say that this will resemble John's relationships… I am… not like everyone else. I do not have many friends, nor do I often express my emotions…" she wondered why he began to flounder. He was so succinct and eloquent all the rest of the time. "But you intrigue me. I want to understand you. I want to have… I want you." He finished, eyes still dark, intense, burning into her. Knees weak, she raised her hand to rest on his chest again, loving the feel of it, the wiry strength beneath.

"I feel the same way," she breathed. "But," and he groaned, "it means something to me. I don't want to just go to your bed right now. Well, not totally." At this admission he knew she was his. He smiled, taking in her beauty and wildness and light and was filled again with peace at her returned smile.

"Please, let me show you something." She was fearful, not knowing what he meant, what he wanted. But suddenly there was a Feeling in the pit of her stomach, different than the desire she was fighting. It was calm, confidence that this was the right path, where they belonged. Where she belonged. It would be alright.

"Ok," she whispered in response and allowed herself to be lead to Sherlock's bedroom.

* * *

XX

* * *

**A/N: So, I'm not one for author's notes, but I just wanted to say that we're very near the end, where the 'M' rating will certainly be coming into play. Please read responsibly. Hope you enjoy. :)**

**-Gil**


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

* * *

XX

* * *

"Abigail," he breathed, smiling, tantalizing, "I want to show you what _my_ dreams look like."

The tension, the ache in the way he spoke the words awakened desire within her. "What sort of dreams?" she inquired, knowing the answer. He kissed her deeply in reply, winding his hands into her hair. "Oh, _those_ kind. Yes, please do." He laid her back upon his bed, reaching for the soft beside lamp, bathing them in the glow, slowly, kissing her all the while. Leisurely, he lifted up on her shirt, teasing the soft skin there first, afterward pushing the fabric higher, all with control, precision. She arched her back, letting him remove her blouse, and he bent to kiss her soft, creamy skin beneath his even softer lips. He groaned at the look of her, exposed and beautiful on his sheets, vulnerable and trusting and so innocently seductive.

She breathed out his name, as a question, "Sherlock?" he rose lazily to meet her eyes. "Why me?" She wanted to know, and he was clever enough to understand what she was really asking. "You are the only one I ever desired. You are the only woman to make me feel anything. You have made my heart awaken. I want to love you, Abigail," he said in a lover's tone that made her heart race. He felt it too. That was what she needed to hear.

"Let me show you what I mean," that smirk was back, gazing into her, boring down into her soul until all her secrets were known. Abby allowed his fingers to trail over her abdomen, then teasing, tickle lightly around the top of her trousers. His hands moved up to cup her breasts, through her bra, then slid up the straps, pulling them off her shoulders. She arched into him, letting his hands slip behind her back, making quick work of her clasp. Her breasts were now free and he tossed her bra over his shoulder, while she laughed at his action. Then he met her eyes again, giving her time to say no, time to grow accustomed to the idea. She waited a moment and then smiled, urging him on with her eyes. "Please, don't stop now," she said, innocent and sweet and vixen all at once.

His hands cupped her breasts, gently working over the mounds as she gasped in delight. His hands were more than full so he decided to employ his mouth as well, tasting and teasing. She gasped, arching up into him, reveling in the moment and feeling more on fire than before. "Oh God," she moaned, feeling his teeth lightly nibble at her nipple, his smile against her sensitive flesh. He worked for some time, enjoying the sensation, feeling her soft skin beneath him, wanting to awaken her desire fully.

Slowly, he kissed down her abdomen, pausing to nuzzle his nose in her navel, making them both laugh together, killing any apprehension lingering in Abby. She sighed, reminding herself that Sherlock would love what he saw. The battle against self-doubt could be crippling, but she was intent on enjoying herself.

As his lips came into contact with the line of her trousers, Sherlock pulled back, now sitting on his heels, staring intently into Abigail's eyes as his fingers found their way to the button he longed to unlatch. She smiled, back at him, and wiggled her hips as he worked to bring them down and off her body.

_He will love what he sees, _she chanted to herself, and her confidence remained as she now lay before him, nearly bare, only small knickers preserved as the last textile barrier. He hummed appreciation, drinking in the sight of her features, as it slowly dawned on Abby that Sherlock was still fully dressed.

"Your clothes," she whispered, reaching and bending to grip his suit jacket. He allowed and assisted her to remove the material, then watched her fascinated face as she worked over the buttons on his shirt. His hands were resting on her thighs, rubbing small circles, soaking in her warmth as she pushed back his shirt over his shoulders, then stayed to revel in the feel of him. Over hard planes, and the real strength of his shoulders, curling momentarily in the hair at the base of his neck, then around to explore his nipples with her nails did her fingers dance. She scratched lightly, hearing him hiss and writhe, but mesmerized by the pale, handsome man before her. Her fingers worked and toyed with his sensitive nipples, taking in the scant amount of hair on this delicious plane, and slowly her eyes worked back up to his. Their eyes met and suddenly fierce hunger arose in them both as they found their desire doubling, tripling in the moment, began to kiss furiously at one another again. Sherlock pushed Abigail down, and as one arm supported him from crushing her lithe form, the other worked its way onto her knickers, somehow immediately pinpointing his target; her clitoris.

She arched up off the bed, gasping, eyes wide in surprise, but then pulled his lips back to hers in appreciation of how he moved over her. Abby had the remaining coherence to wonder at his adept fingers, at how he faltered not once in his movements, never straying from his target before the deepening pleasure rendered her incapable of thinking. His hand worked over the material, wanting to touch her but wanting to draw out this experienced as long as possible too. She groaned, panting against his lips and he couldn't—didn't try—to fight the smug look on his face at her rather blatant reactions. As they moved together and kissed, the room was filled with groans punctuated with gasps, and by them she stroked his ego as he stroked her.

Pulling away, Sherlock, paused, hands now at the hem of her only remaining clothing, looked into Abby's eyes, "There's more I want to show you. Would you like to see it?"

She saw a flash in her mind of his head buried between her legs and couldn't help the gasp and sudden very warm feeling emanating from the aforementioned region. She bit her lip, unable to speak coherently at that moment, and nodded, eyes innocent and seductive, burning with want.

He removed the barrier and slid those warm, dexterous fingers up her legs, appreciating the feel of Abigail's flesh beneath his own. First he teased along the edges of her dark thatch of curls, giving her time to adjust, reconsider even, if needed. She shifted beneath him, leaning ever so slightly into his touch, probably unconscious, but he saw it. He saw everything, the seeping liquid, the way her knickers had been soaked. He knew, from a somewhat embarrassing—thought not on his part—conversation with John about the act he was about to perform; things were progressing as planned. She was responding, allowing him to proceed. Sherlock took a moment to appreciate her acquiescence which revealed her trust in him was real and solid. As real as the scent of her heated sex beneath his hands—and with that, Sherlock's wandering thoughts snapped back to the sight he was taking in and he dipped his head to pay homage to this woman who had broken his barriers with gentleness.

"Oh!" Abigail exclaimed, eyes flying open, legs and arms rising slightly at shock and delight at his movements below. "Oh!" she cried again, at a loss for words, but taken completely by surprise at the sensations filling her. So hot. His tongue seemed to be heated unnaturally, and _how_ did he know how to use it so well? She couldn't think properly as he sucked and kissed at her sex, but writhed, free and wanton, shifting and bucking into his mouth. He brought a hand around and toyed at her entrance for a moment, letting her absorb what he was about to do. Abigail's desperate panting gave him the permission he required, and he slid a single digit into the heat. Something about the wet sound and the taste of her tangy sex caused him to moan into her clitoris and curl his finger almost reflexively. Did she even have any idea how alluring she was? With that motion, she half-sat up and pressed his mouth more firmly to her clitoris and he lapped at it hungrily, slipping another finger inside her. Working in tandem, he pushed her closer to the edge she was feeling rather eager to explore at the moment. Suddenly her back arched and a keening wail filled the room as she fell beneath him. Tenderly, Sherlock didn't pause, but assisted Abigail through the tremors that racked her, gently kissing and stroking, he watched her back arch, pert breasts shaking with the aftershocks as they rolled over her.

Withdrawing, he slowly climbed back up her body as she watched, high and flying. Her breathing began to slow, but as she took in his appearance; cheeks gleaming in evidence of his nefarious activities, eyes burning with passion and desire and—_trousers_ still disconcertingly around his hips. He swiped his arm across his face, but continued to smack his lips wickedly so Abigail grabbed at him, pulling him into a kiss, joining as he sampled the bouquet. _Her_ bouquet. It felt so dirty and right at the same time, it was all she could do with her rubbery limbs to grasp at him harder and kiss and kiss and suck at his tongue. One hand slipped down his side until she met the offensive material and fumbled long enough the Sherlock pulled back, wanting to watch her assert herself in this way.

Soon they were tumbling over, Abigail on her knees next to this beautiful enigmatic man, fingers fumbling over his belt and button, curious about the way his trousers tented, and—did she movement? Biting her lip, she started the zip down, but at the pressure, it rolled quickly down the rest of the way, revealing Sherlock's pants. Red. That was a bit of a surprise. Her eyes flashed up to his, smiling hungrily, she pulled down with it all at once. Lifting his hips to assist, she quickly removed the last of what separated them.

Of course Abigail wasn't completely ignorant in the area of male anatomy. Virgin, she might be, but she was a nurse, familiar with the mechanics of coitus, with male arousal, versed enough o teach proper birth control methods to her patients and discuss conceptions troubles. She even had seen many men naked in a professional setting.

She was not uninformed, but she was in no way prepared for what awaited her at that moment. A small gasp escaped her lips as her eyes took in the length and breadth of him, heated and firm, nestled in is crisp public hair, somewhat lighter than his dark locks a top his head. She reached out, maybe tentative, maybe hungry, certainly curious, and gripped him, lightly then firmer. She noticed a bead of wetness at his tip, and mesmerized, she ran brought her other hand up to touch it. Down, Abigail spread it in there, making him shift and gasp, "Sherlock, I…" she began, but couldn't finish as she found herself drawn, like moth to flame, until she could kiss his (actually very appealing and maybe friendly-looking) penis. Down went her mouth, curious to see if she could swallow him whole.

Sherlock sat up in an instant, gripping her hair not unpleasantly and hissed, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Don't," it was abrupt, she looked almost frightened for a moment, until he expostulated, "that was a little too… nice… doesn't… fit with the activities I have planned for us." He rested his head against hers, breathing for a moment, regaining the control that her pretty mouth had instantly wrenched from him.

"Abigail, I'm showing you my dreams, not the other way round. Lay down." His eyes were fierce, filled with lust and power, blazing over her and she could only comply.

"I'm fucked," she breathed, and he paused, half way over her. She had been referring to her seeming inability to resist him. Not that she really wanted to, anyway.

His eyes flared again, and he nodded. Normally vulgarity was distasteful to him, the sign of an inferior mind, but coming from her mouth, in this moment it had made his cock twitch in anticipation. Very interesting.

"Yes, you will be," he replied succinctly, then with a wolfish grin positioned himself above her, kissing, kissing at her mouth and neck, working over that delicate skin. So responsive, his little Abigail, gripping at him, pulling him closer, anticipation rolling through her, and unable to bear it anymore, as he licked and nipped at her collarbone spoke again, "oh, _fuck_ me, Sherlock, do." His response wasn't lost on her, she saw the flare of lust, building, saw what her words did to him. She would not soon forget this lesson. She opened her legs, inviting him in, and he moved to rest right above her, taking in this moment, surreal and beautiful and even a bit dirty.

Knowing what would follow, Abigail found nervousness fill her belly. She braced herself and tried—failed—to relax, closing her eyes tightly for the pain she knew would come. "Hey," he said softly, "look at me;" a question. "I need to watch your eyes." She breathed out a deep lungful, and slowly opened her eyes; he could see the apprehension in them—not overshadowing the love and trust, but it was present. He kissed her again, deeply, once, twice, then her nose. She smiled tenderly, but his gaze was burning seriously. "We can stop, Abigail," and she felt a thrill again, thinking she would never grow tired of hearing him say her name in that lover's tone.

"No, no," came the breathless reply, "I want this. I want this with you. Please, go ahead… I know you'll be gentle with me, Sherlock. I trust you. You're a gentleman." His heart swelled at that. Trust him? Sherlock kissed her again deeply, and used his knee to push her leg a little further open, to which she responded immediately, opening wide for him. He balanced himself evenly upon one forearm, and gripped his own hard length, positioning it at her entrance, slick, ready. Just the tip, then he rolled back to his previous position on both arms, hovering over her, watching her as he slowly pushed forward. It took great restraint and the discipline he had fostered over many years to not begin to ravish her immediately. Slowly, too slowly, he ventured forward, allowing her to adjust and make room for him until he met that thin tissue within her, the barrier that would bleed and consummate their unspoken love. The idea filled him with wonder.

Abby's arms came up, around his neck, tangled into his locks at the base of his skull and she smiled, encouraging him. In one swift movement, he was fully within her, and her face couldn't lie of the pain she felt. Deep inhale, eyes closed, head turned, as she managed the discomfort, but he brought her face to center again and kissed her eyes, cheeks, nose, chin and then lightly and sweetly, her mouth until, slowly, she responded fully. Her legs wrapped themselves around his hips, almost instinctively, forcing him just the slightest bit deeper, cause a groan to rumble from his chest at the sensation.

"Sherlock," she wiggled her hips slightly, adjusting to the feel of him there, nestled so close, filling her until her breaths caught in her lungs, "I think I'm ready." Slowly, again, slowly, he started to move over her, his piercing green-blue eyes locked onto hers, reading everything within. What he saw compelled him to crush his lips to her own as his hips rocked into her, overwhelming and short-circuiting her senses.

This woman, the Great Emoter, meeting the Great Thinker; the Man who Despises Sentiment meeting the Woman Lead Wholly by Her Heart; and wasn't it just so that they fit together perfectly?

He pitched over her and watched, living in the moment, the now. He took note of the way her beautiful breasts bounced each time he filled her, the hollow of her throat moving, shifting as she wrapped her arms under his shoulders to pull him just that much closer. He saw her lips, full and soft and sweet, part as she whispered and sighed her appreciation. "So full," she said, "so good," her thoughts flitting past, only half formed. Her heart was swelling as she looked at Sherlock, knowing this moment was perfect, that he had made it perfect for her. She puckered her lips, silently asking for a kiss, to which he complied, still moving over her, delighting in the sensations rocking through their bodies. They stared into each other's eyes—souls—seeing fully of one another.

"And what do you _feel_, Abigail?" he breathed, voice deep, intoxicating in her ear, teasing her, forcing her to think. He seemed to be able to retain his coherency to her eyes, but really, he was almost shaking apart at the sensations rocking through his body. '_So hot, so wet_'— but he cut off those thoughts, trying to focus on what she felt; let it last as long as possible. She whimpered, wanton, arms sliding and gripping along the sheets as she panted her response. She couldn't seem to control her body anymore, her head was too heavy to hold up, her eyes were opening and closing of their own accord. He was teasing her, enjoying the way she writhed beneath him, lost in the pleasure she was feeling, and distracted, he paused, still deep inside of her. Abby slowly calmed enough to open her dark chocolate eyes, and her eyebrows touched lightly in confusion.

"I asked you a question," he stated, and gently, briefly touched her kiss-swollen lips with his own. She thought back through what had occurred the last few minutes, and realizing she never vocalized the wisps of thoughts that flitted through her mind, blushed.

"I feel… good," she giggled, "I haven't got the words. So warm, and full, and perfect… and… I'm f—oh!" she left off as he shifted his hips suddenly, not unpleasantly. "You make me feel good."

Sherlock smiled, appreciating her innocent speech, so like her. He began to move over her again, slowly, staring deep into her eyes. "Look at me," he commanded, and she complied heartily. He knew she had been close by the way she had grown more desperate and wild in his arms. Sherlock wanted to show her how the pleasure could increase if he brought her close, but stopped short of the apex she desired before working her up again. She smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck and then drew her hungry legs again around his slim hips, drawing him deeper.

"Please, Sherlock, I—" she gasped, trembling in his arms, feeling slightly mad and uncivilized and so _hungry_ for him. "So beautiful," he breathed, unencumbered to freely admit it, looking at her, taking her in, drinking in this wild moment, this woman. His woman. He kissed her again and she looked into his eyes, those sea glass eyes that always drew her in deeper—"I-" But he kissed her deeply, unable to wait for what she would say.

The look in his eyes grew serious and darker as teasing faded, "you're mine," he growled, punctuating his statement with a particularly deep thrust, making her gasp and nod as she bit her lip. He kissed her again.

"You belong to me." Thrust, gasp, pant, deep kiss. Nod assent.

"This is my place. This is for me." A deep growl and she whimpered, delirious with pleasure, grasping at his back, so nearly there it was almost painful. "Yes," slipped past her lips, "I'm yours."

He felt his careful control break then, and he couldn't restrain himself from her anymore. He began moving wildly over her, knowing it wouldn't be long for either of them. She began to moan again, punctuated with soft whimpers of delight, scratching at his back, lifting her head to kiss and nip at his shoulder—but he ordered her again, "look at me," and she complied by falling back, still gripping his shoulders and stroking his strong, lean arms around her.

A gleam lit his eyes as he adjusted his hips slightly and thrust forward again. When Sherlock heard Abigail gasp and saw her eyes fly open, he knew he had found the spot he desired. He began to hit this mark, deep within her, faster, a little faster. "Yes," she breathed again. After one, two, three more moves of his hips, she let out a loud moan, filling the room with her sensual sound. He felt the trembling begin in her legs and then, "I'm breaking in half," she whimpered.

He moved only faster, not know how much of her innocence and wanton abandon he could withstand before he came undone when—her back arched, and she could only tremble and shake beneath him, whimpering, gasping, eyes fluttering, hips moving instinctively against him. He slid his hands under her shoulder blades to the top of her shoulders, gaining leverage and deftly worked himself for a second longer, needing her like a drug. The rhythmic pulsing around his desire for her was still rolling strong and then—"Oh!" he grunted, twitching and thrusting to the last, he came, hot and hard within her.

Sherlock collapsed on her, spent, euphoric. A moment passed, breathing, hearts pounding, neurotransmitters flooding their brains, making stars dance and the room dim. He opened his eyes, finding her gazing at him in wonder, eyes hazy and love struck. "I've never seen anything so sexy," she whispered, "as watching you come inside me." She smiled and blushed, surprised at her own bold words. He felt a hot arousal at her language ('_even possible?;_ he wondered), but smirked, then serious, "watching you come—knowing_ I_ _made_ you—now that is sexy. I feel so powerful." Smirk was back, blush increased, eyes still holding love and lust and wonder.

He didn't break the connection of their eyes—souls—but slowly pulled himself outside of her, now with his face right above her own; she responded by unlocking her ankles and letting her now-weak legs fall to the mattress. "You were brilliant." Another kiss, kisses, suggestive smiles. He seemed pleased at her words.

"Breaking in half?" he was curious, wanted to know what she had felt, with her own words. A fading flush reappeared and she bit her lip, giggling, eyes fluttering. "It was like… too much. Too good." He smirked, she rolled her eyes. "I didn't know what I was going to do, I mean it. It felt too good, but then… I guess I made it. Oh God, Sherlock," she broke off, kissing him again. He responded languidly, as though they had all the time in the world, which of course they did.

When they broke away, he fell to the side of her, then rolled to his back, and Abby followed, tipping her slim hips to rest against his warm body, one leg resting easily on his, then the pair tangling together. Her head found its home upon his chest, with her breasts cuddled warmly on his chest and side. Sherlock's arm wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her closer, kissing her wavy locks and pulling a sheet over their bodies to keep her warm.

"I'm still tingling," her laugh came quietly, throaty, and his fingers began to lightly run over her back, to the sweetly rounded cheeks and back, a slow, delightful circuit. Her arm traced across his clavicle, danced along his arm but couldn't reach his hand, her goal, as she scratched lightly, in an asking sort of manner until he brought his hand to hers. Their fingers intertwined, his eyes fixed on this slow process, realizing that this woman, this bizarre woman, so unlike him, yet so similar, had brought so much change into his life. Her presence had provided healing and balance to the many years of cold distance and isolation. He was hyper aware in this moment, as he turned their joined hands in wonder, that their lives had been joined as well, changed irrevocably. A surge of joy filled his heart.

"Abigail." _Joy-Bringer_. How apt.

"Hmm?" she asked, eyes feeling heavy, body languid and easy next his.

"I… am grateful that you are here. I am... very fond of you," he said, stilted still, from years of cold detachment. She heard what he could not bring himself to say.

Pulling herself up on her elbow, looking into his eyes again, smiling, she replied, "I am very fond of you too, Sherlock. Let's never leave this bed. I don't want this perfect moment to end, ever." Her deep kiss sealed the statement and Sherlock silently agreed.

* * *

XX

* * *

**The End  
**


End file.
